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At Burt Lake

To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings. . .

October dusk.
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens. . .

Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake's eye.

Such clarity of things. Already
I've said too much. . .

                  Lord,
language must happen to you
the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.

From Random Symmetries: The Collected Poems of Tom Andrews, Field Poetry Series, v. 13. Copyright © 2003 by Oberlin College Press. Reprinted by permission of Oberlin College Press. All rights reserved.

From Random Symmetries: The Collected Poems of Tom Andrews, Field Poetry Series, v. 13. Copyright © 2003 by Oberlin College Press. Reprinted by permission of Oberlin College Press. All rights reserved.

Tom Andrews