The Empty-Handed Fisherman

He stares across the sea and dreams

of all the ones that got away.

He listens hard to seagulls’ screams

and squints at boats along the bay.

His loneliness lasts longer than

anything he thinks or says

as he forgets the ocean’s deep,

distracted by the shallow waves.

The sun has gone to bed again;

the moon takes over from the clouds.

He jumps into the water then–

for swimming home he’s not too proud.

The sky is bigger than the sea;

the stars are glistening in the waves.

The fisherman’s a fish, you see;

his home’s an endless open grave.

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