“I thought it wasn’t real? “
“Your mind makes it real.”
towards specific ends he drifts
though the footing is not what he had hoped
they told him it is the journey that matters
but how is it he should believe them
his shoes wafer thin
to embrace every odd stone and glass shard
each step in the wrong direction
he must drift towards them all the same
if the moon were to keep floating on one evening
would the ocean still ocean?
is an ocean an ocean that doesn’t wave?
this rocks him back and forth gentle on the porch
he recalls without resistance
from the deep pool of his mind
she helps him worm the hook with pliers
out the fish’s turquoise cheek
he is insistent on dialing in the pressure
of his grip in the hard fabric work gloves
does it not hurt them? he asks
admiring the hole where the metal was
no his mother says
not if we let them go
he touches the scales with a curious finger
watches the hole fountain red
before laying the body soft and sure in the shallows
unaware of the cat and mouse he is now a part of
only watching a blood just like his
streak sharp
and body through the thick growth
how easy to forget he thinks
the homes we’ve built in the sounds of water
from bluegill sneaking mayflies off the surface of the lake
