what does it look like? how can 
we be sure of the holographic wire
the fishing line tied to the 
back of the boat
which trolls and twines
into spectacular space?
how can we be sure it won’t 
scare the fish away?

in the dream, you are on the boat,
not my father. you tell me to cut 
the wire, let the fish go
you and i threw
the tackle boxes out to sea 
its weight a iron typewriter
rushing toward the bottom,
a kind of forever you asked me
to document.

we are taking photos of the loons
which lined the mossy rims of 
American Lake you tell me of
the curse, the witch
who made the bird inedible to
most cultures.

the bird was too tough, 
it couldn’t be plucked, 
it had to be sliced at the chest
and be sent back out to sea.

but how can we be sure of the
knife? of your stories? Oh grandfather,
Oh puget sound, how can i know if my
memory remains in that boat, on the lake,
and you and I without ores?