The sun points through the trees, and catches you
pretending you exist, remembering
another time the sunset punctured through
the precincts of your picturesque dissembling,
and all your fresh impressions overlay
exquisite shards of memories, sublime
echoes of dreams, like film from yesterday
mistakenly exposed a second time.
The lake furls itself, sheds a dimension;
plays a shapeless line for several feet
meandering without your blind intention
against two continents that almost meet;
and as you cross, the sunlight dares to mention
who you are, and makes it obsolete.