Fishing

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.