duckback

lover, you

in the frost of midseason
with your hands in your pockets,
a veritable frission of doubt, yellow,
images as lakes, little false starts like shots--

like one of those forties songs sung
by a lady with hair like dark wax--a nexus of light in the eye
and a smile that never gave it more than half of
a chance...we had a good run, lover, you
lover, you
lover, you

in the rushes where moses used to go,
oh,
in the rushes where moses used to go.

but it beats like when you press
fingers to your eyelids.

it's a low and moaning call. my hands smell strange to me.
where'd water roll if a duck had no back? sing
the yellow deep in behind you,
in the frost of midseason
with your hands in your pockets.