Unlaced and stale, his boots lounge
on the ruffled mat, their toes a rusty orange
like the light that slinks
around the corner where a door closes,
a mirror slants. Tonight, on the lake
behind the house,
the wind is not the wind.

Half moon. A plane billows the blue.
B minor clouds the horizon.

You are alone, paddling an old boat
whose owner doesn't paint anymore.
He doesn't daub the calm in your face
as you palm the rain,
nor contort your posture.

Only, now and then, a whistle stretching
like a contrail.

He said the wind would wrinkle the water,
but the wind is not the wind.