On Ice

I do not feel compelled to share with you
the lightning flash at 3 AM, the dream
that leads the nearly beaten heart,
fresh meat for the workplace, heavy
with dread, up and away from sleep;
the scream that only the dreamer hears.

I am not driven to report to anyone
the whereabouts of wayward thoughts
or the fruitless search for fugitive images,
no matter where those searches lead or
where the thoughts are scattered.

But I will find myself, a month from now,
—now that the last of the leaves have gone,
and the daily blue’s gone mostly grey—
beside the lake behind the city’s shab,
looking out, and my horizons will fade
and I will no doubt go walking on water.

5 thoughts on “On Ice

  1. There are poems, Mr. L, that make me go quiet inside, from first line to last. Read and reread, they seem to tell everything and nothing at the same time, and I leave thinking how amazing the work is, and deeply envious that you wrote it and I didn’t.

    There is no one line (at least for me) that stands out; this is more of a single piece of fabric, seamless. Thank you. I don’t know why, but this one will stay with me for a long time.

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