The fisherman throws his nets
At night, when he eats, he sits alone
His plate round as the moon
He lights one candle on his table
He cuts the fish with his fork and his knife
Peeling back its skin like a bed sheet
Most mornings he wakes before the sun
For the fish, they don't sleep long
On some nights, when he's been drinking heavily
He goes down to the rocks and he reads to the fish
He reads to them poems, poems from books
Poems about the human condition, about the muscles inside of him
That question and quiver and shiver in sleep
Bottle in one hand, book in the other
Books clutching poems like they were their mother
Too afraid to let their children out into the soft fear of the electric night
And he was the wild one to show them this world
His mother will never hold him like that again, he thinks
I'm too big
Book in one hand, bottle in the other
While the storms flock behind him like gathering ballooning corpses
He screams these poems, screaming out the words
Like they were teeth he no longer needed or cared for
He slurs his screams like a drunk preacher cutting a rope
Picking up poems like they were stones to fling at the foot of God's throne
Hurling word, after word, after word
Waiting for some door in some black cloud, but nothing happens
The rain falls, the waves swing, and the fish sleep
And awake, and sleep, and awake, and again and again
In the rocking of the ocean
He stands above them like a Noah surrounded by bucket after overflowing bucket
And all he has left to catch this wet lightning is this open mouth
So he reads to them
He reads to them about things that none of them will ever see
About flowers opening
About birds as large as cliffs, holding heroes between their silver wings
Carrying these warriors into the open grace of the gods
And a mighty providence this fisherman stands inside of
Their shields and shoulders polished hard enough to blind the sun right back
He empties himself and the waves swing
He goes home, falls into bed, sleeps all the next day
Night comes through his window like a dream, like a fever
Like a mother to hold him close to her
He wakes inside of her arms, goes to his kitchen
Lights his candle, cooks his audience
And peels back its skin like a bed sheet before crawling inside