I am fishing now, in a stream
that has followed me down
from the big sky at night,
muddy and rippled with stars.

My shoes are dreaming on a rock,
full of fine wet sand.

My clothes have begun to doubt me,
but my hat is a mile wide,
a meadow yawning in the sun.

The storm between my ears
is as loud as popcorn
against a metal lid,
hardly strange for the season.

I wait for a moment and listen:
by a trick of the light,
I look almost real in the water.

Then comes the breeze,
laughing, to carry me away.

June 21, 2006

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