Poet

THERE must be
Moments when we see right through
Although we say we can’t. I knew
A fisher who could lean and look
Blind into dazzle on the sea
And strike into that fire his hook, Far under, and lean back and laugh
And let the line run out, and reel
What rod could weigh nor line could feel —
The heavy silver of his wish, And when the reel-spool faltered, kneel
And with a fumbling hand that shook,
Boat, all bloody from the gaff, A shivering fish.