fishing the river is for old men,
solitary figures who saw their original sin
and now see darkness closing in

for old men, who watch
the leaves pass on soft singing waters
to them, it matters not if they make it to the black sea,
tarry a while on a quiet bank,
or sink into the silt

for old men, who dream while awake
whose eyes no longer flutter but squint
in the sun’s naked white journey
from shore to shore

when their line becomes taut,  
a slow dance will ensue, not a battle in a larger war
they once felt compelled to fight--raging, raging against the night,
for fish and fisherman know, when the conversation ends the line  
will again be loose, drifting on currents, bound for the certainty
of uncertainty

fishing is for old men, I
am haunted by waters