The bodies line this lake of suicides.
I visit the locked shed
Where lovers carve their summer oaths. Inside
The corpses gather. Drunk or mad,

Some found their depth in these black waters.
Others, more sane than I,
Lost to sorrows another month would cure,
Took Goethe’s road from Munich, pining

Like stock Werthers for some pretty thing.
The Poet stopped to sketch
The church, then travelled on. I stay and train
My eye to read the lake’s essay on death.