I sold my wrists last night to touch
the frailest of things: a bone, a body,
a belly of a bull frog at the end of an
endless lake. My whole life I had been
waiting for brightness, blue cave crystals
or the break of dawn. But this morning
walking on the edge of tired waters, the algae
pooled like bruises, and I think I’ve chased
beauty too long. In the dark well of trees
behind the lake, the moon pleads like a father
begging for solace, something soft and pretty to hold.