A man spends his whole life fishing in himself

    for something grand. It's like some lost lunker， big enough

    to break all records. But he's only heard rumors¹， myths，

    vague promises of wonder. He's only felt the shadow

    of something enormous darken his life. Or has he？

    Maybe it's the shadow of other fish， greater than his，

    the shadow of other men's souls passing over him.

    Each day he grabs his gear and makes his way

    to the ocean. At least he's sure of that： or is he？ Is it the ocean

    or the little puddle² of his tears？ Is this his dinghy

    or the frayed³ boards of his ego⁴， scoured⁵ by storm？

    He shoves off， feeling the land fall away under his boots.

    Soon he's drifting under clouds， wind whispering blandishments

    in his ears. It could be today： the water heaves

    and settles like a chest. . . He's not far out.

    It's all so pleasant， so comforting——the sunlight，

    the waves. He'll go back soon， thinking： "Maybe tonight."

    Night with its concealments， its shadow masking all other shadows.

    Night with its privacies， its alluringly⁶ distant stars.