The Insomniac
Once a month, I drive out of town
to the lake to scream at the fish.
They circle, unbothered. I stalk
the shore, muttering the loose verses
jangling in my pockets even now
like unspent quarters dredged
up from the deepest cushions.
A line I used to love: God
hovered over the face of the water . . .
Under a new moon, the lake looks
unearthly still. There are no light
words in the language of unbelief,
just stones scattered on the shore.
Fumbling in the dark, I find one flat
against my palm, send it out across
the lake’s black surface singing.