.

somewhere beyond oaks and skies
is "a lake and dank sands and light",
his claim to "the dawn of a lake poetics"
(with hawks). not mountains of maples
nor limestone escarpments that once
marked the shore but dank-sandy
light-lifting lakes, bits that
end history with postmodern roar,
fragments that claim no last regional word
but deposit dead seagulls on driftwood
and stones, compose things that a poet
collects in his pen, seaweed afloat
like letters on waves and his calm
meditation tinged with despair