across the bay
and no compass rods tackles

merged with the open 
the rain splinters and the wind

The swells 
the boat's belly down between waves

one leg in the rain

hollered for direction	pointed into fog

bowed and slackened and bowed again
bounced through 

The rods drew 		the rain the white

Rod by rod, the fish
and eased them into the bucket

The East Village Poetry Web
Carrie Etter