Spurs or The Space Between Fingers

I asked the lake about you.
The whole lake,
not just the piece
held
in the muted eyes of the stag;
That piece of whetted
guillotine sky
that cannot be withdrawn from the block.
Evidence of people
content in appearing content
wrinkle the hems of the sheet.
I want to crawl under it,
to fill it,
yet still ask for the door to be left
slightly ajar.
The worst offense
of the feud's forgotten origins,
is that we anthropomorphize
people
and bind ourselves to each other instead
with smoke lanyards,
and whistles,
and gifts with hooks in their bellies.
Suddenly I wish I'd bought some apples
from the basket-faced man
at that roadside stall.
He would have declared that
"apples are for walking"
but I would have stayed awhile
unfairly thinking
too much of him.
A friend once told me
that he was told
that something is only worth saying
if it adds to the silence.
And I was annoyed,
as if he had just laid claim
to my grandfather's patronage.
As if crumbs of time
didn't get caught in the headstone's lettering.
Turns out I just admired my friend's purpose.
But the lake.
It heals over my question,
the cambial silver
polished from beneath by old stories.
So I smile to the face I know
the least -
the leased?
And retreat to the boathouse
where I left the book
which taught me the word
anomie
even though I already knew the meaning.