The Still Tree

there’s a dock on the bay i fish at night
perfect for me--the still tree nobody sees.
i cast a line and unwind the day’s clock
until it breaks like the waves and the glasses
i left stuffed in her couch--brown and foreign
and shaped so beautifully.
drunken stupor never did wake to comfort
trout never did bite without bait
and knowing now that I’ve
just hooked a fish
my branches
shake the leaves
high and low
and to a whisper
come back to the cushions tonight my love