by june squirrels had conquered the attic, and no longer

were we saying a cheap dream is better than nothing.

you built me a dock to scan stones on the riverbed for ayu

grazing on algae, but i could tell you were thinking of another

the whole time you worked. i brought an ear to strung can

and heard your prayer for patience, made in the same tone as

when i told you i fear being the first of my line buried

in your country. along this crooked swell of river, i prepared

the kebari while you stroked, then hooked live decoy through

their sides. your curved hands, crowned with growth scars

like ginseng roots, kept the pace heavy as you needed. by the end

of the season, we’ll again switch reed with paper screens. each

stomp will cast evil further below. we’d lacquer gold

for luck the fishbones if it guaranteed more watermelon

fragrance, another year of good fishing.