Pink lake
your sheared surface
glistens slick
as licked lip. Body
of water, you are
ninety-two percent
solid fluid,
brimful as a scuttled
canoe—unstable as
you take the shape
of any container
you’re propagated in;
Japan grows you
square for a sturdy
stack. Green sided
aquarium,
your still depth swims
a school of ebony
pips—or not
if we’ve doctored you
neuter as we would
breed fish boneless
if we could. What hope
do we have when
we fiddle the force
for renewal? Moss-
patterned boulder,
roll back
from the tomb’s black
hole. Pierced torso,
let your ooze
of pink water recall
the high heat of summer,
when we dove
into you and surfaced drip-
ping your sweet and
sticky from chin to
elbow—spitting a contest
of glossy black seeds …