Does water break its own surface
absent the intervention of hull or gull
or rock? Doubtful Lake Michigan simmers
like a pan on the stove

or like the pan of a miner
on his heels by a creek
probing with filthy fingers
flashing gold mica and quartz.

The surface heaves and ripples.
Heat sinks into water and spreads its molecules
whores out the waves that fall in painted strokes
of the axe upon our shoreline.

It is a human thing
to regret but not enough to change.
My face bears its lines like these waters
swallowing every single cast stone.