Returning to the lake I’d thrown my wedding ring into,
someone whispered, It’s still there you know, undissolved.
In the shrubs chipmunks scurried, and the man with the bottle
of Jim Beam sunned himself in the dirt path. He said he hears
voices in the winds, coming from all directions. I know this
because I hear them, as well. His mouth was an O as he raised
the bottle to; the bottle mouth was an O, he poured himself into.