The Art of the Angler

This moss is the only pubic mat I wish,

the wife who is fast and cold, seductive bones;

these trees, undermined with their roots in air, the knees

that wrap around me as they wrap the brook, the beams

of a fallen barn I enter. In the stream

awkward crayfish grope about their urgencies

and I exact from under roots and stones

with great deceit the last quick fish.