(for my grandfather)
He walks with the knowledge of fish:
each crooked algaed rock will hide you
if you dart quick to its fetal film.
He used to be a boy scout—metal
heavy strut. Now he is the maple-rust lines
of a rod sputtering. Rope-bristled hands
catch trout, herons, crows. Midnight,
he slips the clock beneath his pillow, travels back
to watermelons, manly hand shakes.
Eagle feathers, bare-breasted night swims
when the moon hung just below the lure
of ticking hands.