A white pond: icefishing in Michigan.
I was twelve and bored.
My father and I sat in a little
hut—I liked that part—
staring at a hole and ablack
water, staring at a bobber
waiting for a fish I didn’t want
except for something to happen.
Shivering in the dark in the middle
of the lake frozen to a nondescript
white field, I longed for demons
and corpses, anything at all.
My adolescence stretched out
beyond the horizon, pallid,
teatureless, and any tracks crossing
were going noplace I wanted to be.
~ from Colors Passing Through Us (Alfred A. Knopf, 2003)
