In the Middle of Flathead Lake

Even five miles from shore, he crouched below
the line of gunwales to take off his shorts,

she to slip out of her top, her bikini bottom
sliding over one knee, then the next, then

the two of them gazed at their nakedness,
her untanned reaches pinking in the sun

and simple sway over waves, his
own bare place a desert with its one

thirsty tree, and she moved toward him like a squall,
her wind tasting his bark, taking it

inside her, and he let all the gust and grit of her
knock across his hills, he kissed the salt

of her, the ragged strands of far-off kelp
come to him on her wind, fish-silver,

the rust of sea wrecks, and they turned over
and over, each into the other

in that tiny open hull, vinyl
slippery from sweat and their own weather, the boat

making its own tight waves, slapping one-two
one-two to either shore, until the troll

of other engines could not be ignored,
and they moved back into their clothes, bodies

upright now, arms over the edge and fingers
trailing over blue so deep those mountains

could drown in it, over blue so jammed
with trout it glittered like a cloud full of glass,

blue so deep it took mountain, took cloud and boat,
took two people trying to become

a lake, took all things under high sun
into itself, even as the cruisers

and the yachts advanced, and other voices
poured their way across the surface—

those other lovers who would not find
a thing, each piece having already been arranged,

and only these two able to know it.

Evilese

First in the clumsy sign, hexing that car
around the next bend. Then in the clear
expletive of feet, the way hers broke, broke
a soft face. How the gestures cloaked her

from those far counties inside. How bright
the road from bone to hand to daylight
sorties where the word, black as oil, could speak
for itself in the sand. Where to find

the new songs. Across the sky, finches
leave their shadow. Meanwhile, the mute screech
of tires, child at a loom, the half second
when the house explodes, a kind of speech.

30 Pieces

Four to bribe him out of jail till dawn.
One more for a deposit. Seven
for the titty bar, gin, that red back booth
where no one spotted us, a lap dance

built for God. At the all-night club, nine
for jazz and barbecue. One for one
last moon. Sally, Eve, and Joan still trolled
for final throws before the night was done,

but we had time, grief, big plans to keep,
world poised for a sun, like stone, to sneak
across us. We still had eight—enough for
eggs, a copy of the Post, his bribe

back in for three. For one, my bit of rope.