Our Blue Note

A black lake is frozen solid. Below,

small fish can be seen in mid stroke.

Their scales glitter off the sick moon

light so pale it mirrors your face. Dead

white clouds gather against the black in quiet clusters,

a sea of hushed silence around the grave

that was once your heart. A fluttered handkerchief

is your eyelashes, sopping wet. A crow scratches

its voice against the ice, hunger driving at the source

but blockaded by something so natural.

The ground has its own beat, seen as a shovel

peels back its red layers, but you must find it

elsewhere. The lake is frozen. We bury the dead.