I.

By dusk the lake was almost 

not there, the bed looking

as it hadn't. I sensed a question

in your eyes (of a luster

often seen on tea pots,

rarely on people), or maybe

you had nothing left to ask.

You were not you at all,

I guessed, as leaf shades

migrated through leaves

and hung in the treetops.

Last night I was never

in my life a child. I had

never felt so sick and cold

that I could hardly move.

II.

This morning leaves shake

at the dim-lit glass, faint paisley

of lake light on the backside

of everything. Suddenly

last night feels like

illusion, outlived by a wish, also

innocent until I called 

it back, looking back

for the hint of a kettle's breath,

 

to where I like to think, I thought,

I like to know the faintest things.

I know enough to know

most things worth knowing

are past that, you and I, and should 

withdraw from all we half-

know, but reach instead

right towards you, limp in sleep,

and touch your head.

This poem originally appeared in Green Mountains Review.