The Lake Isn’t a Life
but it understands
being forgotten,
has learned to remember itself —
slow heavy depths,
the overflow of night,
earth’s confidante.
Not a color either —
what we call blue, green
but a tone outside the spectrum —
liquefied light,
sky poured into furrows,
cold secret currents.
It’s stubborn —
won’t stop hammering the rocks,
stirring the land —
mottled dream residue,
the aftershock of rain,
my breath made molten.
by Lisken Van Pelt Dus
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
I love how the sound and shape of this poem suggest the back and forth motion of waves and tides like memory shifting with time.