Fishing for the Moon in the Water
I took a hangnail in my teeth and yanked
it hard to see my bright red undercoating.
I wanted to be a mad dog, to snarl
at those who walked too close on the street.
I brought this rod and rusty reel
here to the dam where I once took your picture.
I’ve caught nothing.
The earth is mostly under water,
like the thin blue of your tired eyes.
So what is the use of lighting candles in a grotto,
of desperate prayers before night drowns the day?
Locusts chant and whir from low-leaning branches.
By the last chord, the one we dredged
up from the murk, that note we hummed
through cornfields and down runways,
I am defanged.

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