Somewhere else, the lake is dreaming
too–one inhale, one exhale–
its seiche tied to my body 
as if memory has chained me 
to the lakewater–rolling restless in bed.
 
The old story clings like plastic tape: 
they said if the greengray water’s low,
you can see
a church steeple, its spire cutting
low water.
 
Someone swears they saw it in ’88,
then again in 2018–
sharp as a crooked finger.

I imagine the steeple
is what keeps the lake dreaming.
I whisper its name into the water,
to see what it may carry back.