By Thomas J. Glasco

I drift fish in rivers.
Stone faces ogle me.
No encumbrances
a pot and pan
a break down rod
a voice in my mind
courage to be alone.

Streamlined symmetry
without motor or propeller
a ghost through fog and rain.
The oar extends energy.

I balance my spine
over canoes bone work.
Each stroke waits for delivery.
Every cast knows its way.
The fish that wishes to feed me
finds the allure.
Thumps of rod tip
lift my spirit skyward.

Categories: Issue 5, Poetry | Leave a comment

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