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Night Fishing Our spinning rods, burning medicine wheels. So, with these images of light, a ritual begins:
Mars on the lake, a burning ember. Venus, a cold blue stone.
Only lovers feel this buoyancy, like light. Like holes in a conversation:
“They say in New England that everything is grayer— maybe something like looking through an ice cube made from the Etowah next to that nuclear reactor.”
From the dark behind my head-lamp, someone is watching over me.
From the road on that side of the lake: headlights passing.
“Doc Watson says when he dreams he only sees white.”
Headlights on the lamp on the lake.
Bullfrogs sound like Buddhas anointing themselves in a field of candles. You ought to see this at sunrise. You wouldn’t believe it the sun goes down but not out.
River Time I am standing by the river retying a Black Stone Nymph when I hear a stick crack behind me a man with a blue bandanna his eyes stoned and mad he halloos and I say hello in a non-threatening way he says howdy and keeps approaching pocket-handed and jittery seems this one Any luck? he asks and I say No, the river’s too high he nods in agreement stops a few feet in front of me stops nodding and looks down my eyes dart to his focal point his left my right and I see below a stand of laurels I see a disposable diaper rotting smelling of shit covered in blood his eyebrows jump lips trembling we both look up at each other’s eyes and I assure you that his were the ones covered in all that madness
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