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.