hundreds the size of nailheads
spawn in what shallows our banks
contain darklets in mudclouds clay
my brother stirs in fistfuls to sieve
through between spaces of fingers
here we are stillwater disturbances
the canoe slicing into canebrakes
the mobile of lures caught twisted
in the limbs of trees we shade in
we the waterbugs we the herons
who stand mud-smeared shirtless
sunwarmed in pondwater shores
with fishfly swarms on our necks
my brother my playmate he cups
a tadpole in the pond of his hand
one of these days I will age older
than him I will outgrow his years
when a head taller within bigness
I will hold his tin pail I will show
as he shows the tadpole in hand
when a loss of footing turns this
world to one of brown I am one
who cannot tell in veils of murk
and a thrashing of arms whether
my brother is one to let me drown
if he pinches me out into his palm
if he puts me in his pail an icebox
it doesn’t matter though had I his
age were I older I would consider
my brother a brother worth saving