From the Pier . . .

From the pier I fish with worms, finally with bread; Usually a blue-gill jerks the bait, but sometimes A bream. A baby snapping-turtle's head Emerges, eyes bewildered, though he seems Content to have the hook caught in his throat. I cut the line, throw turtle and hook, now one, Into the tricky water floating my boat. The splash quietens, receiving early sun.

The river's facade of ripples, liquid sun, The incalculable sound of the small blue boat Sloshing—all of these gather as one To feed my five unmighty senses. Throat Is hard with lump, and what-is only seems To be: rusty cans, soft mud, fierce glass, the head Of a woman, eaten by fish. But thank God! sometimes The devil forces through starvation his coarse black bread.