It is too cold for August. The moon, one
hoof-print deep, hardens over the lake.

Around my ankles, minnows hide and seek—
delicate fin-fan. I should go back to the house.

I should pull the windows down to their
devout, polished-pine frames and say

nothing of the night leaning on the lake’s
surface, nothing of a pin loosening,

nothing of that clear-eyed calvary
shifting its weight in the summer grass.