Lacunal and Arid, A Most Unwelcome Breath

Let's forget about toes. When there are mountains in sight, we don't care about green. We don't care about the whiteness of our blouses. There's an eyeing in the jungle. Juggling the paddles, counting the blossoms, slobbering undercover, sobbing in the shed. We posit invisibility; we advance superpowers. We are frequently disappointed. We have mountains and wool from Minnesota. How has it traveled? Where do we breach the lake? What is the point of a lake in the desert, when a version of yourself can't swim?