Layed down the rod, sinking it meaty

fluted in the damp wood. Carp ‘nt need be spiced–

hold it long, still. Silver-finned

good luck charm in your hands now. 

The little stars seem catchable here, us

embedded in the little oar. Do you see the big oar?

I think we left it at home. Go back, I say.

Row forward though, keened for minnows,

anchovy-bated breath. They never swam a chance. 

Take it by the thumb,

see its little hiccup to sleep. Hold it like the moon rising

in the Western sky. Look into its eyes, now. You listen, too,

cacciatore wind blowing your hair.

Do you see it? Shake of the head–

bow, lowered, arrow still prodded between the strings.

A fixed arrow.

The eyes are the same as mine. Beady and yours, looking

back, 

hunted. Blue-and-black

dyed holes, fallen into, the boat. The boat was built to sink 

here. 

Wet-bellied realization & it’s dusk,

let us go to return the stream; 

be the hunter another time.