Piscary

         you told me to

count the moon’s fingers

before casting my fly—

to reveal the lunar digit

and its fished prophecy.

         you told me to

wade to my hips in the

fuddled murk—to swill

 silt with parched pores

 and a knob knee.

         you told me to

breath a scaled bounty

into being— to trawl

the hot sandbank with

chum and a ripped fin.

         you told me to

whisper my worries to

a night-lit surface—call

on the estuary to carry

our blue burdens to sea.

         and so I did.