Your body wakes
into its quiet rattle.
Ropes & ropes . . . 
How quickly the animal
empties.
We’re alone again
with spent mouths. 
Two trout gasping
on a June shore.
Side by side, I see
what I came for, behind
your iris: a tiny mirror.
I stare
into its silver syllable
where a fish with my face
twitches once
then gones. 

The fisherman
suddenly a boy
with too much to carry.