I flick this rod
swishing through
the evening air
the fly kissing
the meniscus
I know there
are poems in here
I see their
darting
bright flanks
reflect the
setting sun
and others have
caught such
giants here
As the water cools
my hips
I think of
Robert Johnson
selling his soul
for the blues
I wade in
over my head
for a time
but nothing down
there makes any
sense at all
just noise
Patience
I hear my father say
as I feel my breath run low
The poems choose you my boy
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