Puddle water, dunking
For the fisher; waiting for a
Quenching sea, for
The vein of a tide. He married a
Cupboard of dirt for a
Worm, birth of a fish; reel and line
Wallowed on a pole,
Scales later in a dustbin.
Hook in a mud-sump bottom,
Shame this shallow,
None to spill in the crisp of a curl;
Silver fish dart by
A crag, into a shadow dark as a bone;
Scythe in a gullet,
Widow-maker in a school.
High tide caps in peaks and whorls,
Arose and breasted the rabble;
The elder man tastes
Salt like the sea, a numbness hanging
Onto his skin, to his name;
Rock, and no water, wasteland for a fish.
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