Miles up the crumbling asphalt
I smell the mangroved mud perfume
whispering of mullet, crabs and shrimp
and fish – lord, the fish!
Agile snapper, snook and reds;
Cat- and ladyfish galore.
My fingers tighten on remembered reels.

The boat trip to the Island
wets my face with saline spray.
It dries in the scents of sea grape and palm,
floating in atop a zest of salt
from ever-restless surf shouting
over and over “I am here!”
So am I.
Never so much elsewhere.

2022

Atop a jetty rock I stand,
fragile flyrod in my hand,
trying to ignore the surge
that breaks to spray me on the verge.

I need to climb still further out
to cast, but I am filled with doubt:
I hesitate in fear — I freeze
and tremble in the ocean breeze.

Am I too old, my balance lost? 
And if I fall, how great the cost? 
Is this how I will kick the bucket? 
What the hell, I’m fishing!  Fuck it! 

3 March 2020 originally

You always thought you would die and then
be resurrected to live again.

Or you lost someone you loved so much
you invented Heaven to stay in touch.

Or you simply refused to believe your soul
could just disappear down some black hole.

Or maybe you chose to believe that spark
would go with your body into the dark.

Or that all your joyous exhilaration
was only part of a simulation.

All wrong.  All right.  All misconceived.
It matters not what you believed.
It matters not which part you played
in the personal universe you made
from which to learn, with which to touch
the other gods you missed so much.

28 March 2021