The Lakeshore Trees

The lake shoreline is waiting for the day
to break its bones upon

the roaring mane of golden dawn, the roaring mane entangled on

the dreams of every dreamer in the night before,

now gone, gone, now gone.

The lakeshore trees are standing till the water breaks the sky

and floods the firmament of swimming eyes and draws

the thoughts of fishes' heads above, aloft, and high,

where they will gasp that it is dry,

where they will drown upon the altar of the sky;

where they will see the lakeshore trees give up their foothold in the green,

will watch them tumble, murmur, slide into the watery blue sky

where they will lie, observed by fish,

till all of the ripples

have died, died, have died.

Atop the bottom of the lakebed you will find me catching wry

as fishes dart amongst the branches, crying, burbling in their cry:

"Help us, watch us, we are flying,

we are drowning,

these are trees in which we die!

These trees are dreams, and we are moving

in the sky, the sky, the sky!"