I’m going fishing.
Tap into the topazes
and rainbows of the water.
Be still as a sapling,
plunge,
like the root of all life,
into the deep dream of the lake.
Challenge its aviary.
Tempt with my lure
eyes more open than mine.
I have gone to the end of time,
like another lure
bobbing on the surface of Andromeda,
carrying a bag of sunlight,
the captured dust of summer mornings.
Whose fish am I?
Caught in its dreams of vanished being.
Wondering what it will catch.
What it will let go.
What it can imagine and put in a pouch.
So I look at my pole,
go back to my doze,
calling out to the depths.
I wish to catch nothing and everything,
I’ve gone fishing for the day.