[39] Angling, John Muro

Seeking nothing more than a patch
of shade and the calm expanse of
shallows, I’ve once again given
up on myself and struck at the
shimmer of light that rides atop
each low-slung wave—a delicate,
dapping cast on monofilament
by easterlies towards this secluded
shore and I know enough about
fate that this day will surely be
one when only desperate souls
are caught and then
mercifully released after summer’s
gaff, pewter-weighted, has lifted
me from my haunches towards a
benign heaven or at least that’s
how the dream begins before
evening’s emptiness when the
moon, in measured ascent,
maneuvers away from the
horizon and wades out into
the braided channels of sky,
using wisps of clouds as leaders,
while casting the luminous scatter
of more distant and nearer stars.

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