Poem for Thursday, February 26, 2015

At the Spillway

The fish have been reduced to flashes
of silver streaking beneath the current, and light
has never seemed so slow.

We set down our rods for a moment to
bait the hooks. You opt for an artificial jig,
fluorescent like sin. Now is a good a time as any
to say that love cannot be articulated.

Instead, I slip thread through a new hook,
banking off a metaphor while the sun
exploits my forehead. Before we recast,
I am branded a child of this earth. Consider this:

our lives, the tepid water spilling over

the edge.