Georgian Bay
in a summer of objects, lashed to the mast,  
cyan, flat on the page, but becoming sky

the boredom of a cottage built on glass  
	outside, the wampum of hair,

dirt and calliope, regular fastidiousness  
and where she left smudge marks on the glasses

these are things we don't want to share:  
	iambs, terror, sleeplessness, the whole

androgynous stage of wading, skipping rocks  
	near the shore, not far from where the gulls


into the water, in the morning the waves   
are only a theory of the afternoon, the lake

brims with mirrors, we are an empty mind  
fastened on the wind; stones beneath us

round with feet, passing like mirrors between us  
islands can't seem near or far, just impossible

we bridge everything, everywhere the mind of   
water breaks on our shores