Angling from Buddha’s Grave

Casting Helen wormed on a hook
from a bank of two rivers.
Now left and then right.

A thousand shipsful of future,
a thousand shipsful of the past.

My rattling creel overflowing with fish
a millisecond thin, broad as the day, long as time,
jumping and the red gills gasping
for time dissolved in the rivers,
parched in the desiccated mix of times.

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