We built our lake house lying
far away from the city circumspect

of all passersby. At last, our attempt at escape
passed, fading the engraved memory of rubble and ruins.

They have gone with the dust that settles
to our feet and to the ground, carrying them
but never constructing with them. Along the banks

we built: splinters from cut wood, shirt stains
from rusted nails, chipped nails from sanding
chipped floors. After everything has founded,

we jumped right in to the lake, a pair of ripples,
bodies tried to wash away all the dirt from that
day’s work. As waves reached the banks, the soft
ground got darker as it got wetter. I remembered
the late afternoon watering flowers in terracotta pots.

I remembered that night, what leaked out of the pot’s hole was a stream of mud, murky and brown, reflecting the blurred moon behind the clouds. I remember how the ground sunk once again, and how our house was a lake house.


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