Tuesday, February 23, 2016
A day on the humiliating lake.
He made use of our catchless vessel.
His words went shoreward like light on the waters.
I was pretending to work on the nets.
His instruction to go back to that blind
plain of exasperation sounded
simple enough; somehow outweighing
the verdict of our experience.
Since our trade was conquered with a catch
out of paradise - our fisher-hearts white
with a heft that hauls have never been like,
the swelled sails of our trade being conquered
by sign and gift, the inundated boats -
since then, when stepping in the prow to catch fish
what once was trade and occupation
is whelmed in rested afterglow; lake lapping
we're mastered in our abandon, higher duress:
when we go to catch fish it is simply vacation.