Cleopatra Would Not be Satisfied

Tree trunks stained with storms. Sibilance ceasing with the attempt at dawn.

Summer thins and I haven't been to the shore this year. I miss her low-wave Morse Code tapping out the message. At the Great Lake, the one like the sea but not the sea, sky matters but water reigns. Oceans become something mythical, something lovely but too far to reach when one's arms are full of fresh water. The soil of Egypt is the soil of Lake Michigan, but Cleopatra would not be satisfied here; the lake is not the sea.

You and your liquid script. How do I remove what is indelible?

Leaves and branches downed. It is decided we will take down a few trees. For a better deal, three neighbors will also be taking down trees deemed dangerous. When it happens, the noise will be unbearable. I visit the trees to tell them what is going to happen and to pour the moonwater at their base. This is the most loving liquid I have to offer; blood and tears are too human. Too violent. Do we need forgiveness from the dead, Beloved? I'm going to ask.

Certain sentences. Not just language, your language – your sight – a ladder unto the ecstatic unity. One says that language is futility and yet another says language is orgasm – the result being touched or known a certain way. I am your congregation. Your plate- sized hibiscus. I am every butterfly on it's way because it was it was made to do that.

walking
caught in a downpour
laughing at no vision
yet walking faster
further
we know the way home
in the dark
and rain
so close your eyes
open this way
come with me