After Jericho Brown
Like a good fisherman, I read the water.
I can’t afford to miss a ripple in the current.
Past and future form ripples in the current,
whirling turned leaves in a merciless circle.
My pen comes full in merciless circles,
present yet tense at the mouth of the river.
His song still stings at the mouth of my river
where words, like water, are meant to spill.
The blood of a hooked fish is meant to spill.
I baptize him in the perigean tide.
Earth’s gravity is strongest at the perigean tide.
His cheek meets the riverbed; ink soils my sheets.
On the next full moon, rain falls in sheets.
Like a good fish, I read the water.