Tom Andrews


At Burt Lake - Poem by Tom Andrews

To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings. . .

October dusk.
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens. . .

Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake's eye.

Such clarity of things. Already
I've said too much. . .

Lord,
language must happen to you
the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.


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Read poems about / on: october, pink, tree, hair, water, sky, night, star



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 20, 2003



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