At Vic­to­ria Beach


There is a storm

ev­ery three years or so:

a bad one, last time, on a night we couldn’t

see the stars from the bed, it took the con­crete slab

with the gazebo, pulled it all away overnight.

The gi­ant wa­ter reach­ing up to wrench

the blan­kets back in fit­ful dreams.

Like it woke in a story, and found it was a boat,

the hexag­o­nal hive set off into the night,

leav­ing the land it was

poured into

and joined the leagues of things

far-gazed upon in dis­tant win­ter claws.

The lake makes apolo­gies, in its re­pen­tant moods,

in the form of a wide square dock, washed

on the large back of the beach,

or metes out here a lawn chair,

there a ca­noe,

what­ever the dream­ing

land feels you are miss­ing.

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