William Doreski

Not even Lake Geneva
stays reasonable when the wind
stoops from high places and swoons
in the laps of innocent souls.
Yesterday every local shore
resounded with thunder and rose
to meet the challenge. Marshland
wept with frustration, lakes slopped
over themselves, and you weeded
the back garden while the storms
floated untidy propositions
only dead logicians could solve.
Today the waters lie as flat
as usual, but the mud-rims tell
stories we haven’t heard before.
Scattered mollusk shells bereft
of inhabitants glimmer like
piano keys struck by genius.
No grandeurs occur although
the rivers still exclaim, slightly.
Did you weed enough to sleep
through a seamless dream of walking
with that famous gray executive
down Hartford’s weepy summer streets
to the pond where fisherman drag
big trout into smothering glare?
I often dream of that wordy fellow
sporting the blandest pinstripe suit.
I always link him with Voltaire,
whose imagination outran
his reason. We understand,
watching the cats twitch and dream,
hearing the rain on the metal roof.
We picture the Alps gleaming
with their fundamental history
crushing but painless, the lake
restraining its darkest instincts
as the old conversations fade.

William Doreski

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023).  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.