Net

 

The raw flex of muscled rope,

The blue slap of cold,

A tangible sky pressed into ink. 

 

Backs hunched in creel curves;

Hand over hand, bone over fist,

Blood into brute force of a gale-ripped sea.

 

The reward: 

A sliding spill of silver fish. 

 

That night, the sails split open galaxies;

Their guts are full of stars.