In fishing stories I read

In fishing stories I read
a slither of histories that peal

drying on the gray wooden deck
and get pried loose by a youngster
who has no idea that

there's anything more important

than finding a dollar
in the street and putting it
in his back pocket, for keeps.

As is, flies buzz around
the lights in bow-tie formations,

poised at a minute in history
when I couldn't do anything else

except watch as they dive bomb
they seem to worship.

Detroit cars and sand dunes

in towns forgotten by interstates
pull down my eyelids

like the whispered fringe of Andrew Wyeth drapery,
wheat fields surrounded by large sky and spectral maps,
someone tonight is in the highest building

on the water front playing cards
as the cow jumps over the moon

and the spoon finds a drawer
to sleep in until a meal appears
as if by a magic that makes
the heart sink.