Where the flow is hindered,
there the gleaming fish
is seen, given,
driven to the thread I hold –

where the stone in mid-stream
rises, spatting the river’s underbelly
over into other,
into the rising over

that we only see in broken,
in bended fadings
shading into rain.
There is a flow

that rises from the river but is other,
a singing, a second line of sight.
There it is my gleaming face
is seen against the cold,

set against the hinder. Shading into mist
my break or bending thread or arm
is seen a moment,
given to behold.