BLACK LAKE

Don’t go down

to the edge

of Black Lake, they say

there’s no story

beneath the surface,

no moral midst the chaos

of mud and weeds,

no answers pulled from its depths,

just a mirror of plate glass,

a sheet of black marble,

the pool of nothing

but heartaches for the lost

and dead.

 

Don’t go down there.

They say it will pull you in

if you try to see

what’s below the reflection. Believe

it’s time to break camp, move

on. Still, the calm, the quiet,

the serenity of night

invites you there, whispers

jump in, home is a space

you know in the dark.

 

So don’t be frightened

of Black Pond,

it’s the beginning

of Black Falls,

headwaters of this stream

you float and fish,

drink and swim.

That mysterious universe

that underlies the rest of it,

tests the limits

of artistic stimulation.

 

So what the fuck

is going on here, and

is anyone arrogant enough to answer

that question? The problem

with language is it

assumes comprehension’s

a possibility, that my reading

of your experience

can somehow make it mine.

As much as we try

we cannot get away from ourselves,

there are too many of us—

all connected microscopically

and all uniquely alone.

 

All in all, all the more reason

to go down to the edge

of Black Lake and listen, watch,

pay attention, maybe sit down and wait,

wait till something happens,

know there’s a reason you’re here.

Don’t be afraid

to test the water,

don’t be afraid to swim or bathe,

do the dead man float,

feel it fully

before you walk away,

take the trail back down

into the valley of death, of people

and shadows, of poems

depressed, following that

familiar well-worn path

back into the breath

of laughter and light.

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2 Responses to BLACK LAKE

  1. Jerry McDonnell says:

    Keep it deep on the surface of Black Lake better that way if you later decided to dive.

  2. marcogibbo says:

    We should try the phone. Maybe this weekend.

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