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Gone  Fishin’

I am of the caste that releases
more line, pulling
from the foundry of the sea
luminescent lionfish, pewter
Coho, the pale curve
of the passing moon.

I angle in the way
of the grizzly, catching
what I can, devouring
it raw. The odd bits

remaining held close. The brim
slipped into the creel 
of cortex to be smoked later.
Casting into the flow,

the rooster tail lure of language
lunges against the current’s rush.
I watch the riffles for flux,
alert for the flash
of nascent mystery rising.

                                                                 Published by The Dos Passos Review

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