The Drunken Fisherman

    Wallowing in this bloody sty，

    I cast for fish that pleased my eye

    （Truly Jehovah's bow suspends

    No pots of gold to weight its ends）；

    Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout

    Rose to my bait.  They flopped about

    My canvas creel until the moth

    Corrupted its unstable cloth.

    A calendar to tell the day；

    A handkerchief to wave away

    The gnats； a couch unstuffed with storm

    Pouching a bottle in one arm；

    A whiskey bottle full of worms；

    And bedroom slacks： are these fit terms

    To mete the worm whose molten rage

    Boils in the belly of old age？

    Once fishing was a rabbit's foot——

    O wind blow cold， O wind blow hot，

    Let suns stay in or suns step out：

    Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout——

    The fisher's fluent and obscene

    Catches kept his conscience clean.

    Children， the raging memory drools

    Over the glory of past pools.

    Now the hot river， ebbing， hauls

    Its bloody waters into holes；

    A grain of sand inside my shoe

    Mimics the moon that might undo

    Man and Creation too； remorse，

    Stinking， has puddled up its source；

    Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage.

    This is the pot-hole of old age.

    Is there no way to cast my hook

    Out of this dynamited brook？

    The Fisher's sons must cast about

    When shallow waters peter out.

    I will catch Christ with a greased worm，

    And when the Prince of Darkness stalks

    My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . .

    On water the Man-Fisher walks.