When Papa threw the stick, Spot slid
To the wateredge, shortened into wrinkles
Like his ridged back. String screeled
Out into the fog where spookily we waved,
Thrown by the huffing mantle lamp, spread
Like willows when the wind is heavy.
Water popped under the leaning sawgrass
We walked that day my boot was lost
As through skimdrift and raft of leaves
A carp broke into a different air.
Fred spits fog, and trailed like Indians
Papa’s pipe mutters to the minnow can.
Spot puts his teeth into a howl.
Why am I here? For in heavy winds
Lies the long carp with his vein of mud,
Pausing await, touchless, sucking midnight
Through his grill. I know that time
Is the long and sliding shape beneath
The lilypad. O I know someday the winds will mix,
And I slide down into my other air.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.