It was the air which entered you,
drifting in the small boat.
The stories, the jokes, air swallowed them,
they became element, air and water,
an intercourse of branch and vine.
You arrived at the old muddy anchor in your sleep.
And you realized your allegiance to fishing
had nothing to do with fish, or little, anyway,
so when the great bass came writhing out of the water
you were shocked.
He lay in the bottom of the boat,
a sudden silver word.
His mouth was angry, his mouth was an old man
missing a bus.
You touched the scales, the flapping fins and sharp tail,
with a hesitant welcome.
And later it was you and it was not you
who carried the bass on the strong yellow line
and showed him to the neighbors,
a photo snapped in a bright room.
Inside, your own gills were opening and closing
like remnants of an early life,
when this hadn’t happened yet
and you were traveling through water,
dodging anything that suggested an end.