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A Brown Trout


You descend into forethought.

Dried caddis shells

line the river banks and

with the rain tonight, the current

will pull them back—origin

upon origin—

the moonlight leading

our milky oblivion.

You are partial to regret.


As tree, she gives in.

We circle the grove,

placing the just ripe apples

into our pockets, we stop to interrupt

the symphony of swallows,

cicadas and crickets

in the shallow pit band of the orchard.

To know instants—as

infant molecules

suspended between

limitations. It is to be

human. As tree she returns,

unending and unending.


She calms the flooded valley,

empties an invisible tender

into the still-glass corpuscle

of reservoir.

Constant on summer’s

perennial cloud,

the swallows rise—

their laughter,

a communion.



the olive green body wandered,

drunkenly, to a rock above them.

You are beautiful, I won’t pretend you aren’t.

The trout pulled its head

toward the embankment, loosened itself

into the current,

soon forgotten between the shades

of the nascent and the departed.


You are dying?

I am a man of miracles.

You are beautiful, I won’t pretend you aren’t.


Unravel the wheel.



and boys gasp, watching.

My dog’s face is covered in sand,

the beach is his room.

A paradigm of black,

wildly quiet.

His face a mole,

the acrid tenure of beauty

smeared across the nose and eyes,

spread wide, ear to limp ear.

Sighing, slovenly, in his bed,

the bodies rise and

rise again


I am composing a river,

a stream, with or without you.

The current rising in emerald

nosegays, slowly,

slowly, the fore-count


handfuls of sand

smoothing her teeth,

brackish on her fingertips.


The soft-wooded pines predict the history of the valley.

Heads raised, we consider a bow.

A hill rises above another,

and as many angels as we see



Recalcitrant tenor,

her half-light hanging

on the precipice before me.

This is a body of water, a body

affixing ground to sky, unaware.

An apocrypha,

reeling in the calm

dresses of a warm September afternoon,



Body turns into body,

the supine relief.

We are performative,

And bearing

And not yet finished.

Oak turns to beech,

to sweetgum to maple to ash—


Fingers try to interpret

the intelligence of her apiary.

She is not,

and we find that we are

drunk too early,

that we are ubiquitous and

not raven-like. Over born

and indignant to others,

speaking so that,

somehow, the stream

endowed with evening will not

give us away

before we can retreat to

either Bolivia or Montana.

Chris Caldemeyer