V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics




Just last week the surface thickened into slush
like a cold veil settling between this life
and the next. Today the first fishermen shuffle out
across that wide open space to claim
their solitary huts, sink their flashing hooks
on long filaments, each waiting

for the smallest tremble between
thumb and forefinger. All night staring into
the deep, round mirror. Even when the moon
is obscured by clouds, there are dim lights out there
in the distance, each small shanty glowing from within.


© by Brent Goodman


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