A Lake

At the lake, our pale legs,
dangling from pier's edge,
dragging fleeting forms,
ever expanding across the
sunset drenched expanse of water,
they look owned by ghosts
alone below the blue-green
surface.
Fingers, saturated, wrinkled,
pruney, we'd call it,
flexing each digit to get
the skin to return to its
usual tautness, they'd
stretch and rest,
mine atop yours atop
the splintered wreck of a dock.
Boats like bugs skip,
and they drawl at a distance,
slowly sounding out syllables
as the wind drives them,
or quickly crashing through,
sending waves and yelps
across the distance to me
and to you, and you rest your head
on my right shoulder and forget
yesterday and tomorrow.