Rite of Passage

Been mooring on

the past week or so,

tethered mostly / to the event

of my nightly dreams: a repeating intervention, funeral &

unresolved speech. Awaiting the day when that day & the days

since have moved

maybe north, south,

or after. To after

the flat lake refreshes & in the flash

of my flesh I’m no longer tired.

The mooring’s not quite

untouched, like the wrong shore, the unfinished cry of

crying gulls. Oh

I’ve been missing

the Adirondack

since childhood. Yet here

it is: broader,

marked in many shades &

the sheerest light — like an only

calling