Lyrhick #7
They float and fish and talk About the pitcher the Cubs cut. He’ll be on a field in Iowa By Monday, they say. Their voices across the water Seem clearer than they should be. I think of the pitcher cut Like line tangled in a deadfall, Lying across a motel bed In Cedar Rapids. It makes me want to believe that Something heavy like a jig lure Has been dropping down through The dark depths of us For years, and that somewhere Even deeper something That has eluded us forever Waits to be caught.