Where the undetermined
slouch and dangle feet over the edge,
or sit full lotus, bait sharp hooks
with earthworms, tie flies
with a contentment of feathers—cast lines.
Some pretend sublime acceptance,
as if anyone is fooled at this stage.
Others relax, believe they are a sure thing
for the upper realm, but eventually
find themselves plagued with doubt.
Is hubris a condemnable offense?
Time is only an idea.
The sky is a frightful
of brightness, clouds massing, sunlight
flinging itself willy-nilly,
squadrons of pelicans in single file
glide inches above the broiling surface
of a lake, which exhales like a long breath
in winter. The reckless ones dip toes
in the water, as if to test the limits
of reality. An acrid stench of crisping flesh
strums the air like a warning.
Impossible, but sockeye and trout
bite in this cauldron,
and we are told, despite hunger,
the fish cannot be kept.
Nothing comes with you, either way,
sung over loudspeakers—
a quiver of hymns on repeat. No one avoids
the impetus to look back. As if a shore
will appear, the safety of solid
ground. Instead, we only see
the pier’s edge, then nothingness,
except a basket of ripe apples,
a leathery snake coiled.
