FRÈRE GABRIEL CROSSES THE LAKE

the clink   his knife on the plate’s scraped-up surface    heel of bread   rind of cheese   pool of red-clover honey   his tread on the dining-hall boards

how he crosses the lake after dark

something heard or imagined   sleight of noise behind the shed behind the cottage five miles across   dark matter    at dusk the heat begins to road-rise   door open   door falling closed

how much to believe    leftover sun well past children’s bedtime    later   night wind lifting the moon from the waves    crickets   bullfrogs bigger than bowls    acorns knocking the roof’s asphalt tiles

his past is unfrangible   his form unchanging when he sits on the chapel’s pine bench     when he places his morning-pale feet into his boots to walk to the barn to milk six Jersey cows   when three mason bees light on his brow    even then nothing alters his material state

silent all day and unseen he lived beyond your child eyes    light-restricted the far shore   unaffected by clay or by clouds    holding his breath    his mother’s faith    crossing herself when she knelt to spread wax on her yellow planked floor    her lips moving

    if you say dream   if you conjure what might have been    how much will stay true    how long    his past hovers in faith    if you think he was angel   apparition    his own quantum leap    sleepwalker far from his home    if you saw him once heronwing the broad lake   surface-low    if you add June bugs    a sky-wash of mauve