Fishing
Once a month, on the night
of no moon, you climb in
barefoot. The zodiac spins above,
its castoffs bobbing
into the mouth of the cave,
riding the dark water. Hunger
keeps you from sleep,
so you return again
and again to comb your fingers
through the rushing black
stuff you cannot see
except where it shines
like moving glass below
the floating lights. And if
you slip, you’ll be carried
downstream into deeper
darkness. And if you stay
away too long, your belly
will shrivel from lack
of light. At last you catch
a fistful of the burning
globes. Sometimes you
think you hear other feet
sliding softly over rocks
in the shadows. Do not
disturb them. You know
as well as they do how this
becomes a religion,
the kiss of your soles
against stone.
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