the thing was milk white
it slid and curled,
 in and out of sight
round the base of an alanthius
 up the bark
round the branches
like light on water
I saw it
because I would not sleep
afraid of another day
cycled like a dream
when those hands
whose grip meant place
were gone, and I'd gone drifting
on the chop cold lake
with boats on the bottom from the dawn
of colonial time
and small boats from before and bodies
of believers, of the damned
of holy water love
all drowned like
clouds
dream mud dreams
forget their first morning
knowing the difference between tomorrow
and smoke