by Robert Lowell

    Wallowing in this bloody¹ sty，

    I cast for fish that pleased my eye

    （Truly Jehovah's bow suspends

    No pots of gold to weight its ends）；

    Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout²

    Rose to my bait.  They flopped³ about

    My canvas creel until the moth⁴

    Corrupted⁵ its unstable⁶ cloth.

    A calendar to tell the day；

    A handkerchief to wave away

    The gnats⁷； a couch unstuffed with storm

    Pouching⁸ a bottle in one arm；

    A whiskey bottle full of worms；

    And bedroom slacks： are these fit terms

    To mete⁹ the worm whose molten rage

    Boils in the belly¹⁰ of old age？

    Once fishing was a rabbit's foot——

    O wind blow cold， O wind blow hot，

    Let suns stay in or suns step out：

    Life danced a jig¹¹ on the sperm-whale's spout——

    The fisher's fluent and obscene

    Catches kept his conscience clean.

    Children， the raging memory drools

    Over the glory of past pools.

    Now the hot river， ebbing¹²， hauls

    Its bloody waters into holes；

    A grain of sand inside my shoe

    Mimics¹³ the moon that might undo¹⁴

    Man and Creation too； remorse¹⁵，

    Stinking¹⁶， has puddled up its source；

    Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage.

    This is the pot-hole of old age.

    Is there no way to cast my hook

    Out of this dynamited¹⁷ brook¹⁸？

    The Fisher's sons must cast about

    When shallow waters peter out.

    I will catch Christ with a greased worm，

    And when the Prince of Darkness stalks

    My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . .

    On water the Man-Fisher walks.

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