He assayed the ordinary, and established only margins of danger
which sent him reeling, inside black months, rebellious
and difficult to manage.
In greasy wet gear, fishing for shadows, this is where he made
home, a blue reed on a Manet shore. Minnows whirling
in a bucket, their eyes losing hope. He with cigarette lips and dead posies, listing
to starboard, fishing with God.
Transcendental where he stands, rain much like chrome buffeting the river,
catching up with exigent memory, olden times, anathema.
He casts how a Macbeth hides a knife, heavy in his shoulders, blowing into the hand
which is free to do what it pleases. Stones at the bottom seem to know him. They call to him:
“Father? Brother? Husband?”
Minnows dreaming in his bucket, losing faith. He with guilty conscience and blood
on his hands, fishing with God.
Lucid as a seraph, burning brightly in his obscura, he tugs the line nearer shore
against opposition from his catch, thinking of the cradle, the grave
the sentient life of deeper-diving selves.
He strings them on nylon rope he wove himself in the Gulf of Trieste, smooth silky
becoming bloody, overrun with mucous, a player in this gray death.
Minnows dissolving in his bucket, choosing delirium. He with dinner for us all
and more, fishing with God.
He always comes home, eyes unpolluted by ghosts. As happy as he gets,
if not content and crisp in the irises, hands pale with cold
and warm dialectic fresh on his tongue. Straight to the knife drawer, lordly now, intent on
removing flesh from bone, dream from daydream, and past from hereafter.
Causes Sean Jackson Supports
PFLAG, Amnesty International, AA, Catholic Social Services