The Fishermen at Guasti Park

Maurya Simon

 
In the first days of summer
the three elms, those slightly
opened fans, unfold
their shadows across the river.
Two dogs arrive exhausted,
tongues dripping, and settle
down near the frogbait jars.
Aiming their poles
toward the center of water,
the Sunday fishermen watch
the light pirouette off
the opposite shore.
Their wives peel onions,
open wine, do their nails.
Most of the men think
as little about gravity
as they do about war and
the weightlessness of time.
How could they know that
it is only the single, collective
thought of their abandoned childhoods
that keeps the world afloat?
 
From The Enchanted Room, published by Copper Canyon Press, 1986. Copyright © 1986 by Maurya Simon. Reprinted with permission of Copper Canyon Press: Post Office Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368

Poems by This Author

N by Maurya Simon
Noon. I can connect nothing with nothing.


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