Truro Lake

On my belly in a smooth soap dish
of granite
I peer through gold gelatin
––black slant fish

White nautilus lying still as ice
creaks, rolls over
cracks in two

This is the lake district
lachrymae
bowls of aquamarine and hammered
iron

Whose steep reproach
sprinkles pink beads
beneath our clumsy boots

In whose krasnoyarsk
fat-bodied spiders glisten
like pearls
clinging to early-warning stations