Face down in a lake there's more to see
than face down on dirt: brown algae currents
and fuzzy growths; minnows; your own
waterlogged arm like a stranger-passenger;
the twitch of whatever lived in a finger.
The float fakes a nicer belly, or else the drier
arch of a balloon loafing over Confederation
Park. The cathedral dusk and muscular stench
excite like a gypsy jack-o-lantern, a fox.
A mum spot, a lacquer overcoat reprieves
the eye from leaf and weed and weepy tree,
the consequence of sight distilled, absolved,
or dissolved. Time, only, hates the foggy
sojourn, tickles us away, thrashing the surface,
lest a moment's rest be irrevocable.