Unhorse that set line into this teeming, still fresh water.
So, that I may prick it nimbly.
catching on your hook.
Though, it is not your bait that inveigles me.
It is not your scent, nor your whiskery whistle,
It is not the way your large fingers handle these scales.
Mercurial, vacillating and capricious.
But, more-so– the need to be pulled up, kept and put to mouth.
I observe more, and suspect more than I direct.
I presume other fluorocarbons,
Though my eyes have grown impuissant and,
Clumsy, like a 4 in the morning user.
I keep catching that bait,
Only to keep getting flung back,
And skimmed hard upon these green waters.
A chaplet, too bantam for your collection.