Not the Story

The lake, flowing freely like an infinity pool 

bending back on itself

curving figures, carving eights.

It hypnotizes, swells when you consider:

the depths, its depths, your depths.

You plumb the depths with purpose

probing and examining where you’ve been

in order to draw a map to where you’re going.

You will get there,

wherever there might be.

You look at the lake with longing.

It isn’t trying to be anything other 

than what it is now at this moment.

It ebbs and flows,

does not fight its tides 

or resist the shore.

It gives me the thing I came for:

my wreck, and not the story.

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