by Robert Lockridge

Like a graveyard where flickering           shades  of risen phantoms
Are reflected in the polished   tombstones of dead lovers,
In the shallows of the heart swarm schools of silver fishes,
Their shimmering scales reflecting
night’s sinister illuminants
In pale imitation of true light.
Knuckles white against the oars,
A hunched and hooded specter
Plies its worn and rotted keel
Back and forth,
Back and forth,
Across black and furtive lakes,
Stopping to cast a tangled and torn net
And again
And again.
Above is the open sky,
Unobscured clarity and radiance.
Which one is true self?
Looking up,
The sun is bright and warm,
The air is cool.