[a pretense of drowning]

what percentage dead are we now. 31, you can fool the mirror but the clock, the clock doesn't tick but sits quiet and watches the lotions and lipsticks screw on the countertop, their high sighs and liquid twists a nun's dream of pornography. a third? if ninety. not at all likely. home movies notwithstanding, gone is dead. immobile. who's the fool now. all minutes become raspberries, perishable. press the book shut, flowers in the dictionary, done. for what? reminescence, a vomited history. but here: Kate, Julie, Bob, Ellen, Frank, Eric, Gene, Will, Louise, Erin, Kris, Mom, Dad, young Julie, Pete, Brooke, Bobby on the front porch, lake air, July. not dead, frozen. white zinfandel, pretzels. towels drying on the railing. at the window, a moon insisting come on in, the water's fine.