There’s my Bayou shark, requiem, nimble
through swamp and misty fen. I’ve seen her twist,
turn and sashay away. A wolfish girdle
flitting through cypress bogs. When frost and mist
cake this lake, though, I can find no old souls;
just ice flows and shadows. I got conjure
and shine but as this wintertide gale rolls
through mud and bone I find my warm water
guide is blind. She cannot find me. Iced lakes.
Sightless seers. Gods fade in this pallid
polar light. Dwindling surf’s boom. What can
a shark haunting the Gulf know of frost’s ache?
Nothing good throbs under my closed eyelids
since words make a poet, gods a shaman.