Our mercurial shores shrink with frost. We’re denser,
receding. You lack arms, and I’m greying at the hands.
There are no borders in a lake zone, only tailing pond,
cool spring, and brook trout semen melding underground.
We’re ailed with vapours: the spit of wet oak,
and the black fever sprung from our brows.
The rust pulse of your sliced thumb in your mouth mimics
the beat of falling rain. Its metallic gush oiling your chin.
Lakes gather teeth from dead walleye, lost swimmers,
and rumoured cetaceans. Keep clear of islands’ jawlines.