Psalm for a Great Lake.
Ghosts of nowhere else never sang in waves. Nor did we palm them
like Petosky stones
we skipped. Or, fake-sinking, tangle in them. No vendettas against
flesh grew tactile
or lurked--scaled like the pike we imagined aimed at our toes, angry as
that might've wrangled us by our ankles into undertows. A Petosky
you told me, is a fossil. A fossil, no one said, is a grave whose
is a skeleton. We plunged through white caps past where freshwater
shelves darkened and turned
us into selves. But here I am again speaking about ghosts as if
we'd known them.