I fail at catching
fish. In every metaphorical sense.
In the hours spent creeping around my house, creeping
around the walls
in complete darkness
I can let go
my fingertips and listen to them feel textured
lyrics traced there, penned in ebony with sharpie on spackle, singing:
And if my hands find themselves
another body, well
you can't blame them
for trying to keep warm.
The finding is not about sex
if warmth is meaning.
Though I've never met him, I expect
my grandfather would agree and explain why
the only way to catch a pike is neck-deep
and with your bare hands. In every metaphorical sense.