PATRICIA CLARK

COTTAGE AT THE LAKE: TWO VIEWS

 

i.
Dew on lawnchairs and canvas
beads of it on the grass,
how your feet leave tracks—

so still, a fire cracks, a phoebe whistles—

is there any “now what?”

Surely these are the brief times—so let’s
kick up our heels—

I thought of dancing—
pushing the furniture back to the walls.

A boat growls and pulls the skier up.

ii.
This is a slow hour
Carolina wren on the railing

man on the dock in a folding chair
summer after summer.

The lake’s a gull wing
blue steaks of waves.

Our dog fell in the water
but knew, instinctively, to paddle.

What do we know like that?
I turn to you—there’s
the body’s shore, ladder of spine.