Tuesday, February 23, 2016
A day on the humiliating lake
he made use of our barren vessel.
While I pretended to work on the nets
his words went to shore like gulls from the water.
Instructions to go back to that blind
sea of exasperation sounded
simple enough; word outweighing
the verdict of experience. And 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 licked
by sign and gift, the inundated boats -
since then, when stepping in the prow to 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 net fish it is simply vacation.