I thought a happy poem was important.
Not all my poems are about Folsom Lake, I swear.

Folsom lake is always cold. That’s its virtue.
On afternoon blazes, a boyfriend and I would
go to a secluded rocky cove, lose our clothes
and dive dive dive.

There are little fish who would come,
once we were standing still, red river
mud sluiced off the way the lake
also took our selves = bit by bit.
These little fish would come, thinking, I don’t
know, maybe happy fish thoughts about big white worms
brought by hairy strangers.
Nibble, nip, squeal, run from the dark clear
water.

We could have just worn bathing suits.
We, ineffectually, and laughing, just applied more mud.