The small car, the crash,the back flip she did
into the rear of a carraige
on a country road, where a
vague wave of red sadness
came over her
on that day in that year.
He pushed forward, more a follow through,
into water, dark, blue, without chill,
where he waited, shining, moonlit,
at the bottom of the lake.
He saw it as a problem to solve-
She saw nothing, just a feeling
of what happens.
Nothing in her life acted as a clue.
He lay in a deerbed of sea oats, hearing
the title of this poem in his head.
He walked along side her as she spoke
the words, "varnish a little coat of."
"Vanish was the new word," he thought,
at the bottom of the pond. "Vanish
will be a wipe, an artificial moment
of doubt, the veneer on the next worry."
Down the path from the pond,
beyond the parked small car,
they lay together in a
small pine grove, listening
to trees trusting the wind.
In the distance great white
windmills articulated the
answer in sway that kept coming-
neither this way nor that-
just in arc.