the mountain is a heavy sigh

there’s a secret on the surface of the lake
-- there it is--
for all the world to see

all the world is passengers in those cars

driverless, headed north on the freeway
headed south on the freeway
changing lanes, stopping
honking,
merging,

what the seagull knows is
judged. his entrance into my field of vision is
percussive.

this evening cries itself to sleep in layers--

with all my force
I could not guide your hand
to make ripples on the water