I’ll meet you at the bottom of the lake.
We’ll watch our friends and enemies ripple
the eﬀervescent sky—then perforate
the ﬁrmament like wished-upon nickels
ﬂicked into a fountain and ﬂashing while
they fall. All skipping stones will fall: triples
and fours and ﬁves gathered to the fertile
garden of rock at the base of the lake,
a congregation waiting for the sky
to part, to feel the sunshine on their face,
to feel the sun shine on their craggy face.