What organizes and designates intensity? Sun at eye level, no holds barred, like vaporized cum, beads of light, boom—

all the moments of a life shoveled by a person in black at the lake’s limbus. To desire something physically, a thicket or maze, kinky, the human factor, but what you get is the world pressed on you in different ways, not less apt or beautiful, more nuanced than a conjured sex scene.

The lakewater is a bar of gold, a semblance from desperation of the life you want, jogger’s pink waist, too cold for the ink in my pen, the whole plot frozen but still liquid looking. Transformation creates a new baseline: golden squirrel in thick, healthy fur without a frazzled energy assesses my threat level. Whose invention or dream is it anyway? The wind throws a makeshift bouquet at “Jeanine, our sweet Adeline,” pine needles and red berries in a horn of ice.

Finally, a love scene: Stalagmites drip from signs. A man whistles, “walkin’ in Memphis.” Plant covered in snow like an orgy of wet snail antennas.

Outside hierarchical power, outside personal power, the back of a sign glows silver and becomes its front.

Who doesn’t love the cold? Why is my shadow blue? White flecks on the lake like seeds that never implant in a vista. And at the very top, dreams as conduit, kinky, sensual as source: hairs of frost, slivers I’m too cold to touch.