Fishing

I see

at the great lake’s edge,
a boundary shaped by man
in concrete,
as if true line
were something obscene,

two fishers, a pole,
a boat, old jeans.

I can
name a colour for sky,
measure stillness of water surface,
savour breeze,
feel the weight in
one summer day
as its line plays out,
hook and sinker.

Mad birds chatter on about
something while

I am leaned
against dry wooden slats,
my arms stretched along
the well supported back of
a village-supplied-as-courtesy
seat,
thinking.

Suppose it is that I
write this story,
create you,
as if recalling some dream,
with place and characters
appearing real,
the facts attested
by my
nose, ear or eye …

out of odd
atoms in vibration,
the wiggling bits
needed to produce
scenes that never existed,
and people and time
and God.