Some nights the lake, through various displacements and transformations, bypasses boat ramp and railing, street, fence and wall, and tries on the rooms of my house. This accounts for my fleeting and often contradictory notions of how to live. Like water the wisdom says. And sometimes indeed I feel like I've been poured into position, or am emptied from a room. And then other times the dense mass is enough to bind my feet to the bed.  One night, while feeling the pull of the lake, a raccoon had climbed out on the roof, and its face so suddenly present at the bathroom window gave me a jump as my piss hit the toilet cover like a shot. Still, the animal looked on. Then the strange distance between us gave way to a gravitating curiosity, an exchange along a mammalian line. Then diminishment and withdrawal, the line that could not be crossed, the lake receding, and each of us returning to our own routines. 

Copyright 2001,  Stephen Campiglio 

Stephen Campiglio's poem (which first appeared in The Raw Seed
Review [1999]) is from a chapbook of prose poems entitled "The Procession," a work-in-progress that is nearly completed. He has also finished a chapbook of ekphrastic poems on the Belgian surrealist, Rene Magritte. His work has recently appeared in Urban Spaghetti, Architrave, Ekphrasis, and 96 Inc, among others. He lives 
and works in Worcester, MA.