morning wash went gray come afternoon
sun went pale and sort of sick.
here they lie and lying exaggerate the catch
though they’ve caught nothing
silence
even the gulls sit mute
huddled on the old wreck of sunken concrete
metal like fish bones thin
and almost unnoticed
protruding from the punctured hull
catch seaweed which is a maiden’s hair
which is a lie they told long ago
fishermen high above the sea
swing back pivot
sweat for a few minutes
but the breeze is cold and whispering of rain
so this will be the last
this will be the last
this
how high before hook snags the sky?
