Fishing
that has followed me down
from the big sky at night,
muddy and rippled with stars.
My shoes are dreaming on a rock,
full of fine wet sand.
My clothes have begun to doubt me,
but my hat is a mile wide,
a meadow yawning in the sun.
The storm between my ears
is as loud as popcorn
against a metal lid,
hardly strange for the season.
I wait for a moment and listen:
by a trick of the light,
I look almost real in the water.
Then comes the breeze,
laughing, to carry me away.
June 21, 2006
Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author
Main Page
Author�s Note
Background
Notebook
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
Interviews
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let�s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
Conversation
E-mail & Parting Thoughts
Flippantly Answered Questions