today, underneath
fat mist over the river, swollen,
the sky, blue and gold (as another Tom would say),
the three of us, little people in little boats, upon
the water fast,
banked by sycamores stark white branches,
there,
behind the angled rocks, a yellow grass, moss, lichen
liverworts, hugging the lee,
we found:
microcell foam, a coke bottle wrapped in fishing line, with hook,
a fishing net, for fish big as a hammock.
and a long run of surging waves, tumultuous, grabby, and
induced rolling courage
poetry and shorts on flow states of various kinds, occasional explorations into clutch states, ebbing.
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