I’ve come back to the lake
to find something I know
how to feel but not voice.
I breathe deeply some lake scent
I sometimes catch
in East Tennessee. I take off
my clothes, and the lake
admits me. I rub the bank’s
mud into my beard.
I scratch my back against
the reeds. I pace along
the grass, trying to find
the right picture. I don’t know
how to make the lake
become me. I don’t know
how to become
the memory inside.