Sitting in the back yard,
reading about the various untruths––
the lie of extended consciousness,
the lie of interpretation. Knowing
there are others. Down the hill,
the lake greens in the declining light,
and those who have motor boats
move in and out of the launching ramp.
I remember the lines
from another man's poem:
When he touches you,
it will be with my hands.
In summer, the songbirds never know
when to quiet themselves,
singing on into the darkness.
NOTE: The painting is Melancholy (1896-1898) by Edvard Munch