Keith Moul

Dakota Swim

House lights here and there
in night’s deep pool flicker
like benevolent stars:
but black, Dakota air
douses each spark.

Or else we see our own lights
bounced weakly back
from aluminum cans
or prairie dog eyes.

Your silence comforts me.
I miss you when I blink.
I strain to keep
everything in sight.

No landmarks loom up—
so we could be in a sea
with fish that always sleep.

Some artist showed deft control
painting a perfectly straight
infinite yellow stripe.

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