—–LAKE CHABOT | SAN FRANCISCO | 2019

Across the surface, the men of this coast—

———the lakebirds, grey reflections
skimming east

———across the lake. At the edge
of three years

———I hold Scott’s hand, our reflections
floating to the bottom—

———pennies, floating like boyish desire
in reverse, milkweed-pink & faceless

———with rust, as I hold the memory
of tearing open

———envelope after envelope, of asking
the hotline specialist, how treatable

———is it? For a while, a BART train dangles
an evening call from a bridge. We talk

———as stars needle the lake
all over, as gulls

———swim into the lakefist & pennies
swim to a place where even light

———struggles with breath, where we pretend
the man who had it didn’t give it to me, didn’t

———crack my year open and watch it molt—
where I’m not afraid to check for the sight

———of blood, where I can look at us—buoyant
in the night-gray lake, head on shoulder, palm

———on chest, name in mouth.