We sit on an outdoor bench. Acidic light corrodes sky chips;
Cloud slabs, hazel bulbous rain. It’s nice here. The lake-
A giant microscope - inching cerulean. Pink foliage. Grass,
Rimming glass edges, is a mixed drink salted.

Sickly, the sun sets. Our eyes, up top, swivel down
to the local horizon. Fish eyed: Past planets,
A punctured moon, treetops, trunks, and sparked weeds.
The wind, a eulogy, slips across an orbit’s edge.

In night, frogs -concealed in pallid dark- are swollen
Like soap. Below, pudgy goldfish splash, displacing
Starlit drops. Our memory of the sun
Has faded. I don’t think we have much to say. For the lake, coated
With algae, like a magnified, rotten grape, has already bruised.

Marie Papazian (she/her/hers) is a Barnard English major, creative writing concentration, and east asian studies minor. She’s passionate about poetry and songwriting. You can find her on Facebook.