It is a difficult hunt in waters
filled with the eternally unseen
afterimages of things imagined
sensory echoes of experiences
bittersweet scent of dreams.
The water is deep
heavily salted with tears
forces anglers time
and time again back to the surface.
The plunge brings a proximity to death
the other side of life’s coin.
it risks forgetfulness and idle hours
staring into the currents words leave behind.
old friends float
other anglers greet
some hold up catches that can fade
or appear larger in the light.
These fish cannot sate
drive the fishers to try again and again
an addiction
to hunt the ripples, the after-taste, the hope.
The quest for what cannot be complete
for what cannot ever be brought
truly to the surface whole
but in parts
scales that reflect sunlight
and hold a darkness within.
So cold now
and so warm fishing all these years
they stretch out behind
like the drying bones of leviathans
perpetually now at rest
on the edge of night’s tilted shores.
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