Casting Nets

out on the hungover gray moor having morning coffee with the old man of the sea we say nothing in this silvered wooden shack lots of coats to put on, it's all very humdrum the boat cuts through small yapping wavelets possibly never to return, but of course we will the mind vaults vast arenas in this place we pass the westernmost cape on the continent we lower the killing nets waiting, trawling, smoking, it's a cold day at this moment, the universe is so small, enclosed like one cloudberry, in a much bigger bunch all exotic fish we find like two species of endangered turtles even a few angry sharks most of it unidentifiable by-catch at the end of the day, what a haul of slime all these words stinking in the shrinking twilight regurgitated without end, coins without face cliche, our deity, ready for blood sacrifice