I was never very good at fishing.
I'm thinking about a single speck
of blood: long & drawn out.
Someday is a funny little thought that keeps
my horizon blue enough.
Who's to say where the line is?
Probably tangled in a cluster of branches.
I'm now reminded of the time my dad
bought a small boat from a church rummage sale—
everything as-is.
I was waiting for the bus when I saw
the sockets of those oarlocks go whimpering past.
The remnants of rust in the Lord scriptured
beneath the pout of aluminum sheer.
I believe we all have a little rust inside
& if you're one to believe we are made
in his likeness, then give me some truth:
you can't always tell if something is dead
just by looking at it, can you? You find it in things,
he used to say to me & now
I say his name from behind a thin mesh.
I've drowned the hull.
I've thrown the last bottle overboard.
An ocean may lurk. Hold & wait your breath.