Lake House
by Kathleen Vibbert


The fog has breasts
and pearls for nipples.
Whichever way I swing
my arms through it,
I hold nothing.

Mornings and modifiers
both die out before midnight.
Damn those who come intruding,
hiding their agendas.

Meet me near the bridge
with the red-wooden mouth:
bring your pony, or a block of cheese.
the outer layer of French bread,
even watercolour or crayon curls,
but no more games or set traps,
and do not expect to win at chess.






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