Skin on the black lake cat-pawed, jellied, clear,
skin-sheet of carpet, dark that holds my weight
for now, my body angel-ed, reaching, spread
like hungleaf once its landing on the ground
gathers one early morning’s worth of wet;
receiving drop, then drop, enough, then drop—
the ankle of stem a waterline, messy,
drawn with a clear crayon, jagged on the skin.
The tickle makes it known when something sinks.
The water’s dark, an everycolor bled
from clothes forgotten, shapeless in the wash—
weightless as hairstrands pulled from long-shut books.
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