bull-rushes all around and swathes
of dry wheat stalks almost obscure
the reflections of the rich owners’
mansions— almost— but
tonight
they are mirrored so perfectly
it is as if another group of elaborate
houses lies beneath the calm surface
a surreal Atlantis where I could slip
and enter the fantasy as easily
as entering any other village
the demarcation point where they
meet, a still distinction
it would not be drowning or death
but gentle in the undertow I’d be
taken in the rhythm of the bees
