It was July 1969 down on Lake Sinclair.
Outside was a night as loud as Mombasa.
Inside the astronauts came down a blurry
black and white ladder, likewise the old TV.
My crewcut years then at ten were just
a clutching of books near two-hundred
year old nesting-oaks. I lurked at the edge
of reddish water and miles-dark hardwood
under yin/yang skies. Later in that cabin
I tried to sleep, maybe channel astronaut
dreams but settled on the hawk
dreaming floodlit over the boathouse,
her shadow pouring out to find me.
Small green rooms. Large space. The doorknobs are no
match for an ocean twenty miles west of this old river-house.
It sits half a block off the channel and feels the pull from
the only moon we’ve ever known. In the morning she
finds her voice again in sweet-water-springs now black
with buried canopy. Only a few walls of the Tamiami
persuasion survive along old forty-one where even rust
goes home. But from a thousand hinges, tacks and rubble
of a pulled-down garage long gone on the property line
comes a bloom.