Boxes

Your tackle box of tired red...

sits in the coffret of my brother's shed. Compartments
of simulated fish life flatter
nothing; lacking in deportment

(many Blue's biting days fused)
not sport for sons or daughter's
reference. Shimmying things disabused

of the temporal power to separate
smallest segments
of vastness. Red Sea bait

venerates your hand alone. The ocean
holds the untenable
tight. Casting wrist in motion

clearing Euclidean space I came
to a latent fathom
to contain you -  linear within my frame.

small flat spot of father...

mourn not detailed movement of different lures,
line of geometry, gestalt
of memory. Only squared the circle endures.