I wonder where my hand is in all this, 
this marsh where moss floats and webs 
stay put, bugs plane pond-skin unafraid 
of the sleepy-eyed frog just back from the edge 
and full.  Here is safe and here is calm;
nothing ever happens here that wasn’t
fore-ordained, announced by ripples or
sudden silence.  
It feels like death.
Happiness would be a shock.
No need.

I’ll bide my time, lay here wild, 
skim this unmade life, this greenish 
eden-bayou, this unfriendly not-mine
as all eventually devour this man, 
whispering via mosquito-buzz: 

there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

*

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