From the Fishouse

the lines I watch
flat
into dragons and maps
off
the end of the world

yes, there be dragons

in creases of a young mother’s
folded
belly skin and dreadlocks
pulled because there was

no other way
I find
my grandfather and the line
I watched
disappear from PQRS peaks to
Sahara

except the sands here
long awaited
fish rolling
in sunken pines and murky
water

that pulled me under
as a child
an adult
a mind lost in knowing

the dead held
their weight carried
like the smell of biscuits
that lingers
on a Sunday morning

when the pond shimmers
bass and bream
The man taught
silence

to dangle the worm
over the limb
tease the water