After Fishing

  Then take the hard right where blue river reeds

obscure the bank, waist-high, where the dock,

that dumb, clean monk, has lost its red habit

to the current, limbs scoured by microbeads.


“It really ain’t that hard, you just loop the line

loose around the sticky bait, drip the knot in

your mouth, and cinch, trap wire for yellow

perch, that what your mouth is for,” he grinned.


And that was what he said. What this shored mind fills in.

Reaching back, my hand is fishing for the true

weight of his knife, warm, yellowed, and finds

a phone, no bars, the hollowed waters


parting. Hungry go those who long after fish long

after fish are gone, still, scale-silt, umber.