We are stumbling
down to the lake, arms locked,
pale and sticky with honey and humanity.
The wind sings a reel
cajoling my body into the right steps.
My friends are here, are they not?
These hands are their hands
These are their faces, reflected in my eyes.
There is a rustling in the woods, a shifting
in the leaves
The stone has a face, or maybe it’s a mirage
of moss and ivy. Maybe its a ghost
from a dream.
My friends are laughing.
I do not know their names.
They are as faceless as the moon.
We are in the water
which ripples with words abandoned by time.
Beneath my feet are all the forgotten things, sacrifices
for the waves to pick and break and drink and savour.
A penny, a bone, a pocket watch, a name—
The water takes them all.
My friends smile as the current caresses me.
Are they my friends?
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