Sometimes just before dusk
after my black mutt’s been fed
I go down to the canebrake
and cut fishing poles for the dead
where the live oaks’ shade
is so thick it'll make you shiver
like a stonemason chiseling
dates in a graveyard by the river
before shadows of the wriggling
bait worms on rusty curved nails I
use for a hook and light in the eyes
of the fishermen begin dwindling.