WHAT IS BURIED HERE by Lyle Daggett

duluth, late july

the rock land bridge protrudes
into the harbor. evening air
settles on the lake shore.
blue gray horizon, the shoreline
falling away, billion-year-old granite.
the end of the long week. four of us
sitting here at a cafe table cluttered
with plates and bottles, people
carrying trays, racket of glass, crowds
and talk and laughter,
summer tourist town.
the south shore rising away rounded
and blue, copper cutting tools,
the ancient dig sites in wisconsin
and upper michigan. what is
the nature of love.
storm and weariness of another age.
waiting for the moon to rise
over the lake. a laugh
mature beyond years, a plaintive
vulnerability, epic journey, stirring
with questions, burning
with the future.

thick breeze, heavy with summer,
under the tree limbs. the night
damp with fear and calm.
is it possible to stay here if i feel nothing.
to remain invisible, transparent, surrounded
by mist. so that i am moved
by nothing. the stars fall
from the sky. distance, silence,
the uselessness of words.
when we walked past each other i
didn't recognize you.
well of loneliness, cave of secrets.
darkness in the windows.
the heart in ruins.

the pale brown granite cliffs reaching north.
a freight train shuttles by on the tracks below.
i come to you numb. i come to you
an empty room. float
on the neutral surface. placid
as driftwood.
a long narrow stone pier.
the lake bed steep, the water
too cold for bodies to rise.
the earth has moved. the mist
drifts into shore. the moon
won't rise till late.
dusty late night streets. three or four women
walk by heady with patchouli.
the bright blue calm wide horizon fades
not into mist but into shadow.
in the long night, in the cool night shadows,
we look into each other's faces, we trace
the dance of our hands,
we read each other's stories.

from What is Buried Here (2006, 45 pages)