The Pond at Evening

The sleet whips in
So small waves race
In startled flocks,

And your wipers
Squeak like crying,
Far-off seagulls.

No one’s up here
But transparent
Old eyeball you,

Wraith to yourself.
Will a body,
Bloated, surface?

Possibly, but
One hopes not. You
Were not, one hour.

This sleet will turn
To snow soon. Good
Then it didn’t.