Moon Over Norway Lake
When we turned off the lights
in the lake house, our reflections
in the windows disappeared.
Through the panes, we watched
the full moon cast down a spotlight
onto the solid surface of the lake.
Where once I had seen myself, now
I was forgotten in the stillness
of winter. When I lay down in bed
I felt my body floating up
into the ice-fishing house
of dreams.
A ceramic owl stared
back at us from the deck,
vainly looking for a coffee grinder,
considering the perils and pleasures
of money, the different shades
of muppets, the absurdity
of its own frozenness.
The moon watched me
as I slept. She told me so
in the morning: I talked more
than usual in my sleep,
about a cyclops, laughing,
as it slowly died,
its eyebrow crystallizing
in the arctic breeze,
while puffs of heated breath
fogged up its monocle.
I awoke to a pink banner
highlighting the sky
above the treetops
circling Norway Lake.