If you wonder
what that clicking
whizzing shirring
is, it’s me, fly-
fishing over
this abyss in
hopes of snagging
pike or grayling
or some deeper
biolumi-
nescent grouper,
flinging forth my
shiver-feathered
fly like prayer
arcing sinking
through the air in
search of any
water down there—
some sustaining,
tensile surface
with a face for
spirit to be
moving on, my
slow and opal-
eyed salvation
salmon waiting
silently as
thought below it.
