A Man, His Dog, and Some Fish: An Aubade
—Brian Henry
Lest we sink meaning through doubleness
or make the boat coast unduly west,
we’d better reel in all we’ve cast
and call it a morning, for morning’s sake.
The gills on the slats make a noise
nothing like the water flanking us,
and the childish routine of demand-
shake-convulse is miles from our minds.
The way you lift your head, as if to yawn
into the cataracting day, would shake
the sternest beast to tears, or a moan
that reminds why one seeks, at last, the shore:
to sing, perhaps, against the surety
of the thing, to coax the water in.