with you. You were
in the same school, in
an underworld of sharks. I reached out
in the dark for your hand. You didn’t

understand. But you replied
in a suit and a tie. I threw out a line
to you. I baited you. And you
bit hard with an old postcard. I look

at the shaggy, black hair and
beard and quiver. Four years
he fell to the angels. Five,
since the last goodbye. You can call

me a fish. Not sober
since October, 2009. I put it in
pen. A couple men seen the plunge
but are biting their tongue.