It is because the lake was so clear this summer.
Invisible anyway, far from shore,
the bottom has disappeared–
disappeared and a cloud covers
the only blue left for our dimming while.
Disappeared
under the fading deception of glitter-
masking surface ripples,
the lake deepens to charcoal.
Ancient lava-frozen surface far down and distant.
Still and hard below.
Obsidian. Malpais.
The desperate transience of any cold-water lake,
igneous in color and shine
a mile above the igneous source that stood
still for the creation of the first miniscule death,
the comedy still-born after silly
eons of evolving foodstuff.
A famished eye trawls for beads
of the first obsidian tears.
