Wallowing in this bloody sty, br I cast for fish that pleased my eye br (Truly Jehovah's bow suspends br No pots of gold to weight its ends); br Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout br Rose to my bait. They flopped about br My canvas creel until the moth br Corrupted its unstable cloth. br br A calendar to tell the day; br A handkerchief to wave away br The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm br Pouching a bottle in one arm; br A whiskey bottle full of worms; br And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms br To mete the worm whose molten rage br Boils in the belly of old age? br br Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- br O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot, br Let suns stay in or suns step out: br Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout-- br The fisher's fluent and obscene br Catches kept his conscience clean. br Children, the raging memory drools br Over the glory of past pools. br br Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls br Its bloody waters into holes; br A grain of sand inside my shoe br Mimics the moon that might undo br Man and Creation too; remorse, br Stinking, has puddled up its source; br Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage. br This is the pot-hole of old age. br br Is there no way to cast my hook br Out of this dynamited brook? br The Fisher's sons must cast about br When shallow waters peter out. br I will catch Christ with a greased worm, br And when the Prince of Darkness stalks br My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . . br On water the Man-Fisher walks.