The White Trout
for Kirby Benson
Stories drift down
about a lost species of white trout
above Englishman River Falls
where we camped.
Me bragging of salmon
more than thirty feet long
discovered in a remote part of China.
"Stars are the ass-holes of dead presidents!" you announce.
But you live where the birds go, my friend.
far south of Crown Royal and rain.
"Therapy is staring into water--and hoping." I reply.
Five wives abandoned on the trail behind us,
we talk about having sex
with deities. Green wavelengths
of pleasure flow from moss and ferns.
Silence, between friends, means God's in no hurry.
Often, I admit, my shadow seems more like a person than me.
I dated a woman who rode killer whales for a living, in Victoria.
Who could compare? She married a pilebuck from Seattle.
"A guy born with his collar turned up," you agree.
The holding water of memories
holds the white trout
in deep pools,
log-sized and wise as deer.
Ghosts with eyes, we climb higher and higher.