What made you go to the pond?
It didn’ t seem planned. Was it a sudden
irresistible urge to look down
beneath the glaze of undulating water
and become the water’ s darkest sorrow,
swallowing its dour bell’ s promise
of something sacred? A summons
tolling beneath natural sound
where the rotating stars cannot find you
and the moon’ s reflection too finite?
But it’ s too late to ask these questions.
Your weed-clogged mouth unable to speak
in the undercurrent’ s resonance of silence.