Lines Composed on a Balcony Near a Tourist Trap

The glass of the lake
whispers memories,
centuries; a dream
spelled out in wave-song.

I've moved alongside
Beneath the thick stars;
Wrapped in the coal-black;
Held in the Big Hand.

I have seen figures
At the ends of roads -
Hundreds of years old -
Whispering questions;

The ancient questions
My feet asked the earth.
What are the waves worth?
Where are the seraphs

Beneath each surface?
The waves are silent.
The silhouettes fade.
The black of the night

Pivots once, then stills.
The trees near the lake:
They have no questions.
Nor the dead brakemen;

Nor the dead sailors
Whose feet wandered here,
And who gave sweethearts
No warning, but left

The night to its own;
The dark between stars
To converse with leaves,
And in their silence -

Together embraced -
Watch each ember fade.