Fishers of Men

I will not cast a line, not anymore,
not when regardless of where it lands

I’m still bent on a bridge at dawn
waiting for my failures to jump.

I’m the LED bulb on the fluffer’s face
making his tackle box shine, the last

inch spinning off the rod’s hot reel,
the farthest distance from feel.

Now do you see how lies take me down
like a fish belly up on the river below?

The brighter the sun, the bigger the bottle.
Yes, he’s a fisher of men, and yes, violence

is hunger with a hook, and porn technology’s
axe in the ice on the frozen sea of me.

I am a bucket flopping with men, a study in
gasping for air. Someone throw me back quick.

Daniel Edward Moore’s poems have been published in journals such as The Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, Columbia Journal, and others. He lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His recent book, Confessions Of A Pentecostal Buddhist, can be found on Amazon. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Visit Daniel at Danieledwardmoore.com