Great Pond
Tom swims
the periphery
as if trying
to lasso water.
I swim across
the pond––
again and again––
as if looking
for what I’ve lost.
And like clock-
work, or like
the shifting clock
dusk is, Lucy,
who irks us,
shows up with
her red buoy. My
lifeline, she calls
it, in case of, but
we know it’s
her death she’s
dragging
behind her––
that flame in water––
as she zigzags, as
if she, or any
of us could
outswim it.
