by George Bishop
Pink and baby blue splashed lake-sky, the air
so still you could hear gators getting final
instructions before heading out of their holes
for a half moon evening of prehistoric stalking
and flash-snaps too quick for the eye—light
and dark are all that play by the rules out on
East Lake, anywhere, actually, this far south.
The whole peninsula hatches more change
than marriage on a good night, sun-drenched,
blistering blacktop burning off so much rain …
like the blizzard of…
up north where home fires
twist stories and crack their whips at disbelief.
Sure is pretty, though—going down, falling
off, coming up somewhere else. Like marriage
on a bad day, you have to know how to read
the water and swim against the stars. Edges
are always calling out when the air is still as…
[More poems by George Bishop]
