Drifting in a borrowed Old Town
on a chain-lake outside Bemidji.
Bluegills nosing the surface.
Birches and their bright silences
on the shore. Two weeks gone
and nothing is easier. Remembering
her thumb tracing my hipbone,
early sun running its hands
through our hair. The shyness
gone out of us then, all sweat
and a reckless need, pressing
hard, trying to break through
into feeling. I lean out
over the gunnel and trail my fingers,
watch the walleye flicker
in their private dark. Wanting that.
To be open-mouthed and simple.
To let the cold water touch me all over.