Fishermen on the Pier

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



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



how high before hook snags the sky?

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