Good Hart, March
Every stone is beautiful in the golden hour
eyes peeled hands in pockets mouth masked
it’s gusty and the waves are filled to their crests with light
roaring louder than beneath our dripping overpass
the ice lies in striated floes tips out
over the incoming tide in shelves and humps
larger swells frothing over rounded holes
no piece of shore without a border wall of ice nowhere for the current
to drag foaming fingertips
shoreline long as the orange-coned idle of cars coiling slow
toward the first round of shots or the second pulled north like us like the moon
pulls the undertow beneath the darkness of the water’s skirts pushes
the lake back onto its rocky shore cold wind whipping
under shadow of dunes blown stories-high fenced by leaning pines
clumped around sprawling empty summer homes and private property signs beach screaming
yes screaming that it is here whether its owners are or not whether it is owned or not whether
it is sunset or not but it is and everything has gone pink
slight upshore slope bearded with scrubs roots dried grass yellow and tan sand too cold to touch stones bigger stones snowbank slush mounds piled high like melting boundaries plowed outside some elsewhere shut-down mall waves cresting overtop sometimes or lapping underneath at stalactite icicles growing splitting growing from cantilevered peaks churning grey water rounded chunks floating and bashing together miniature glaciers the crack! of an ice spine collapsing small boulders filled with holes waves ceaselessly charging count them one two three four nine twenty-seven Lake Michigan the meniscus horizon haze scattered cirrus the sun—
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