A Box of Fishing Flies
Congregation of deception,
Sitting in darkness and decked out
In fineries: the silk, the fur,
Feathered dull or bright, just waiting
To be called by river’s song, rings
Of rises yet hoped into fish.
Some are returned warriors,
Blunted and twisted out of true,
Though truth’s a lie for them and blends
Somehow beyond a memory.
Some new-made catchers of the eye,
Wait for their opportunity to come.
A hundred hopes and falsehoods rest
Under one hinged roof, lined up
To do or die, and every one
With a sharp point of view,
A heartbreak to be driven home.
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