Twenty thousand days into a life, exactly,
It might have been that a specific end
Was predestined after all, given the way
The future haunted the past. The song
Good night Irene. The late night movie
On a black-and-white TV, about a drowning
In a summer lake. The years of being drawn
To that phrase, taking in the evening,
The decades longing to be in an unnamed place
Until the discovery of already being there.
Floating in a summer lake, these threaded
Through mind and body, and self took notice.
There need not be any knocking or moving
Of furniture. There might only be the waves,
Discomfiting probabilities, not comforting
Certainties that spirits remain, and the dark downward
Of the water, containing the bodies, the wreckage
To recover from depths that can't be drained.
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