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.