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under cover of the sun
the flowers black out
and I'm right behind
them. all daily distraction
tired and waterdry, tight
in the bank, of the bar,
on the shore. from
which we derive. the rituals
from which we derive
the information lie deeply.
where the pictures get off
like the real estate
not the letter of the lake
but the spirit. not the surface
of the water but the surface
of the lake, that scrim that
divides the water from the deep
under compression, the silt where
there are voices that are buried,
they are unforseen, opaque,

This poem appears in the 2000 Anthology
View all poems by Buck Downs