Lake Michigan, it says, is a dangerous body
of water. A body; and you can hear it breathe
erratically, caress demure and haughty
cliffs, and chew the sand like children teethe.
Rough body, sinuous, contorting
over the ancient soil; absorbing stars
at night as sprightly flickering eyes, consorting
sinlessly with several naked shores.
Ferocious beauty pins your consciousness
against the wild sunset, the molten leaves,
auburn and rouge. The silence is a tryst
with truths that no one rational believes.
Lake Michigan: these slopes are city walls,
since beauty next to water is unsafe.
Here, though, burnt on the earthy chill of fall,
you want to fill your lungs with winds that chafe.