We were gigging fish in the marsh near Winktown.
You jabbed a suckerfish, and its eyes fought the moonrise
and kept as much of the light as a dead fish can hold.
There was a yellow, silver glowing that wrought the scales
and some of them fell off like jewels flaking into your coat.
The gig’s barbs held the glow for five nights.
And the handle of the gig worked its dark wood
into the stars. So then you said half of the constellations
were already gone, but teased us with something like heaven,
shining across their disappearances much too long ago
for any of our talking to make sense.
I told you we should just get on fishing,
and that took us inside the sunrise.
(From the new book, Fiddling at Midnight’s Farmhouse, by Clyde Kessler, poet.)