Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people. 
Where do the black trees go that drink here? 
Their shadows must cover Canada. 

A little light is filtering from the water flowers. 
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry: 
They are round and flat and full of dark advice. 

Cold worlds shake from the oar. 
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes. 
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand; 

Stars open among the lilies. 
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens? 
This is the silence of astounded souls.