Shore Stuff

SHORE STUFF

Only the usual: bullfrog bellow,

water-striders zipping tirelessly

nowhere, on the tip of your finger

green vomit of pinched grass-

hopper. But then rustle, chestnut

plunk like an eye-drop parting

the algae crusted thick on the skygaze

of the pond. Maybe it was you

who threw it, maybe not—

either way, the algae unsticks

to render a peak of the blue-

green beneath, scale-shimmer 

of the legend who lives there 

and the cool clarity of more 

than amalgamated muck. Wishing, 

like Peter, to keep the vision 

unzipped, fend off a bit longer

the suckering shut? Tell me about it.