Floating Together

the last of the hot water
has run out
and the conversation changes.
red maple stars fall
outside the window.
birds yell threatening things
at the sky
like people outside churches.
our legs tingle-tangle,
waving under the water
in the growing cold
that is making an autumn lake.
you say we could keep
dead bodies in here
as we move towards winter now,
hoping new hot water
is being prepared for us
by an unthinking human thing.
then your first lover pops up
from somewhere deep under us
and how young and serene
and muscular he is,
as he climbs out and looks around,
a jock again in autumn air
dead and somehow
entirely on deck.
we both watch him
shake off the tiny droplets,
oblivious that we exist
and he does not.


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William Keckler

Writer, visual artist. Books include Sanskrit of the Body, which won in the U.S. National Poetry Series (Penguin). https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/532348.