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.