2 September 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 3
Notes from the Lake #10
In the twilight of things, pressed up against the acres of glass, with our bodies beneath: we walked to the place where the deer had woven themselves into the trees. The grass mounded white, the light receding.
"I wasn't planning on staying."
"Neither was I arriving," sunken lengthwise in a moment, where we wasted, having woven ourselves together. The field was soft, docile. We put ourselves into the light, the illuminated reach of mounted staghorn. The light takes itself out of itself and puts itself back into us: algae on the rocks like code in the stream.
Hungry, inspired by hunger, we came, like ghosts through the woods to the hole in the trees where the moon shone down.
I guess we begin or end here, dragging the wood out as we go.
About the author:
Brandon Shimoda has spent much time in and around the lakes of Connecticut, New York, Maine, Oregon, California and North Carolina. His thoughts about these lakes and others can be found in Hayden's Ferry Review, Barrow Street, Snow Monkey, Pindeldyboz, The Styles, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Oaxaca, Mexico.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Brandon Shimoda at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 2, No. 3, where "Notes from the Lake #10" ran on September 2, 2002. List other work with these same labels: poetry, prose poem.
