Greenough’s Pond
The swirling in the water stone remains, old glacier, 
words lost when the others came, I wade into the water 

to touch what he had touched, 
           my body 

in the circle of his house. Wooden signs warn 
that I am trespassing on owned land, & my mother 

is afraid to cross the signs, but they are a shifting 
dream of borders, the image dependent on the steps 

you take. This is the home he chose after everyone 
had died. I sink my hand in water and touch 

the walls of rock and yellow sand, pines that line 
the road so that everything is entrance.
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