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San Pedro Road
Casting, up a salt creek in the sea-rank air,
Fragrance of the ferny anise, crackle of field grass
In the summer heat.
Under this sun vision blurs.
Blue air rises, the horizon weaves above the leaden bay.
Rock crabs scuttle from my shadow in the silt.
Some other day the slow-breathing, finely-haired mussels
On the shore, under rocks, buried in the cool black mud
Would be enough, blended in a quick formal image
With butter, tarragon, a cold white Napa Valley wine.
Today in the ferocious, pointless heat I dream,
Half in anger, of the great white bass,
The curious stripers, bright-eyed, rising to the bait,
Flickering in muddy bottoms, feeding the brakish channels
Where yachts wallow in the windless air.
My hands are tense.
A carcass washes by,
White meat, spidery translucent bones
And I think I understand. Finally, dumb animal,
I understand, kick off my boots, socks, pants
And swim-
thrashing the green water to a mallow brown,
Terrorizing the depths with my white belly, my enormous
length,
Done with casting, reeling in slowly, casting.