How is it I dreamt that way?
You, half way out to the United States
where the wind was flying in from,
while waves on the international lake stepped into the sand,then slid back,
the bad dream of never getting away,
and leaving a trunk of driftwood
to remember you by, 
stripped to the bone,
each of its 17 little arms, 
which made you such 
a good swimmer,
and that green streak of forest 
on the other side of Lake Erie.