I am George the fisherman.
I have no use of my left foot.
The sky is dark; the air is cool,
and my good right shin
hurts from overuse.
I sleep in a hammock: stretched
between memories.
For I find myself hanging
from the one that is a second ago
and the one that is an eon ago
and they appear to be the same.
I say I sleep,
but really I just watch the night roll over me
as one point and the other converge
towards overlapping,
leaving me simply caught in a net.