I pretend the branches make the
growing dark
when really darkness is the
glare from something
back of it all. Looking for it I
trip over
my shadow, and a storm
approaches without
a trace of sound. Driving
distances of rain
play in the nameless. On
clouds grind
over silent houses. One leans
into a lake
that doubles its world,
bending it round
as if something were meant.
