Here the gloaming sky is like those old
but now long cold Ohio hearths
in their days and nights of belching fire,
the water red and rippling like liquid steel.
But it is decades from that false promise
and many miles from all that rust, the place we left to
when the fractures deepened past the point of mending,
closer it is to where we started, the city by the lake
that remains the biggest part of him I carry
besides his name.
This would be his heaven, lac des bois, with its winding
shore and dark depths.
I can almost see him if I try, casting from this dock
or trolling out above the shoals as loons let loose
their thin-throated sorrows better than we ever could.
Image Credits: Logan Fulcher