The thing about a lake is the crazy
men who fish there, in the copper-
hearted flow where cold springs
and greasy seaweed gather.
Shimmer. Buckle. Fish bodies
writhe beneath, more life
always where one can’t reach.
More life always where watching
is not allowed. The poles may
dip as the day saunters on,
yellow light bending toward
afternoon or maybe no mouths
reach, tug on bait left dangling
in a morning thought.