This is the old way to lake, before the birds
moved in. Like you, I am a diver. In the wolf hour
I stand still as kindling. The sun eats
the trees and the air eats me.
You wanted something scientific
to happen, wanted to keep moving downhill,
like a stream. But sorrow moves in six
directions, not a channel could hold it.
Life’s not anchored like that. I would know. I
bathe in it every morning.