Crude Oil

Tonight the park was slick and quiet
And I did laps
To make the lake appear more than once—

The black glossy thing almost
Swallowing
The scene above it.

You missed the clouds— they strayed
off like felt; and a fluffier few puckered
Into shriveled moons;

You missed the glistening stretches of open pavement,
And the quiet lawns tucking under the shadows;

And the stillness;
Smell of wet soil and darkened bark;
The hill curving and peaking;
The lampposts keeping their drooped expression;
And my approach
Back to the fastest blackest part of the park.

I thought:
On one of the benches
Facing the duck-freckled lake
We’ll one day meet—


And then slowed to look.