Lake

Measure me. I am wide with the sorrow
of the world. Have you grown

this way too? Broadening as lakes do, each rivulet and stream
unmasking the water it feeds to reveal
what must become you? You think you can wash

yourself this way. You think each
morning that this sun
will do you good.

You hope that what rain carried over

you in the night can be ignored, or
forgotten, or misplaced—that all
that you are is already enough.