Out across salt marsh
the cannibal sun gnaws its skin. Rose and clammy surf.
Nothing else bites–the pro shop expert said:
You are drifting out too late. Mexican chum fishers
wade clutching spin reels, floating beers
and latin smack-talk in the calm beyond breakers.
My salesman had a Harvard air of all-knowing.
Behind him shelves on shelves of well-spun fakes the striped bass
are flirting with then shadowing away.
Adjust the taughtness, keep your line out. Suddenly
I miss the long sounding up your legs, casting
upstream toward warm bracken.