one of those silent men who hangs there as foghangs, the way you stood unmoving inside yourwaist-high rubber waders in the wide riverfor hours and hours
staring at the bobber, which seemed to hangthere between the river bottom and heaven.knotty upper arms, knees’ scars alive like theglass jar full of worms;
with wotan’s huge paunch; taught me to expertlypee in empty bottles, if need be, how to holdtwenty playing cards in one hand; but you swungup-down like weather.
how much young water has taken the place ofthe old water since then; how many riversago did forests step forward from the darkness,listening, watching
while somebody warmed his wet feet at the fire,unraveling two knots with stiffened fingers —as in the thermos-bottle-days, high morning,or in the deer-light,
the wooden case always near…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025