rainbow trout once
jumped here
where the water is
black with depth
and female hands,
unkempt
fingernails in certain
sunlit trysts
bearing pale reflections of other pale bodies,
clutch crumbs of
amethyst and jade
and are cupped by the
wind’s gnomic graces
as their legs, smooth
as polished wood,
tread water – bleeding
soot-daubed
trees inch their
moribund roots down
in a last-ditch
admixture
of ultimate intensity
and ultimate fatigue
to silty nooks where
crayfish nest –
and all the weeds are
flowering
and the infinitesimal
rapids
evanesce on the
surface of that oblong
pool, eyes of dogs and
men fixed
on their shallow point of re-emergence –
now we and not the
trout are here
with dirt rutted in
our fortune lines –
the rug on which she
tries to sleep
laid between two
cyprus stumps
on downtrodden
tussock, cow pats
stinging nettles,
blackberries,
rampant yellow
flowers, is blazoned
with indecipherable
signs – there is only
us, us in the New
Years Eve gloaming.
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