TROUT   [4] 

Robert James Berry: [1, 23, 4, 5]
**for Ahila**
  Cicadas are going home 
Fireflies smile goodnight                             

There is the fishingboat plosh of the sea  
The yellow chink of ships' lamps                             

Then blackness                             

Now if you angle at land's end 
In the torpid waters 
You will brush the feelers of blind fish                              

On the shore 
Where crabs are kings 
and hermits 
run the tide                             
You can smell caustic lives under the sand  
The wet ruins of their homes 
Consecrated to the crows the rocks                             

In these silhouettes 
Clusters of eyes are envying 
The sand is breeding 
As you walk 
And the contours of hate 
Grind between your toes. 
Dark is the eel that has your hand 

   © 1998