Flies Puckering in the Rain
Or we would lie besieged,
sand and glare
resolving to a dull roar,
ears to the stones,
cold creek water
and the lobes of the trees lit,
golden crenellations.
In the firm, daylight ground
three lies were told.
Each of us
waiting for what we whispered to come forward.
Neither reverent
nor disbelieving
the light-pulse
filled every distance with a body
as if having once forgotten.
As years of alibis
washed into the open water.
