Into the Teeth of the Wind

John Wilson

Fisherman, Fisherman

The Chinese fisherman is man and boat
In art, afloat on several wavy lines,
Stream or lake, painted lightly so that

Nothing obstructs the vastness brought to mind
In the nothing all around. Waves, boat and man,
And shorelessness: he’s unconfined,

Drifting — aware of stop in on and on.
I, like him, see the surface cuts my line
From sight where it keeps going down

And water spreads around, but am too keen,
Too watchful and expectant, caught in a spot
That frees the Chinese fisherman.

I want the thing, and wanting it takes thought
Down, I imagine, narrowly, and wrong,
Bouncing along nymphlike, half-wrought.