#36

Stranger Fishing Trip

Patterns in the boat's wake
catch things already caught,
memories too frail to save.

Your piebald hands draped
over the hatch. Through slots
I see patterns in the boat's wake.

I imagine pools at the bottom of the lake.
The rod catches, string taught
as memories too frail to save.

I play as though I have no stake
in petty bribes to the cod,
their patterns in the boat's wake.

I've got my hand, it's shake,
to contend with as well. Got
a patched body too frail to save.

We've all got diseases to share, take.
Purple air burns down as the sky breaks.
This memory is too frail to save,
a shifting pattern in the boat's wake.