The lake turns over once a year.
Some of the water that rises
And some of the water that sinks
Is the same, I suppose. Not all.
Some of the people returning
Are some of the people who leave
Beginning and end of summer,
Beginning and end of each day.
Not all. Their comings and goings,
Mysterious and incomplete,
Haunt an inner echo chamber,
Turning me over in my dreams,
Confined inside my narrow cot
Of thoughts about the world I know,
Whatever I am when waking.
Some of me, I suppose. Not all.
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