We are stumbling

down to the lake, arms locked,

pale and sticky with honey and humanity.

The wind sings a reel

cajoling my body into the right steps.

 

   My friends are here, are they not?

   These hands are their hands

   These are their faces, reflected in my eyes.

 

There is a rustling in the woods, a shifting

in the leaves

The stone has a face, or maybe it’s a mirage

of moss and ivy. Maybe its a ghost

from a dream.

My friends are laughing.

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