Constantly.

TO JIM from the RIVER

Still floating on the current,

this last stretch before the sea,

like so many we fished together

through what seemed an endless river

of summer afternoons—this one

as familiar as it isn't, hurrying more

the further we go—our conversations

about the words of which things are made,

stilled now to become just the things

themselves, the purling and the rings

of water reaching out from our casts,

heard now only with our eyes

as I stand in the bow, watching

my fly float high on its hackle

along the grassy bank,

careful not to let my gaze

drift back to where

you would always be,

sitting behind me, a wreath

of cigarette smoke—

the strange feeling you said

you sometimes had, letting

a trout go after all

the concentration of catching it—

more like Mozart

than Wagner, you said,

your good right eye

watching for the rise of a life

your blind left, not too far

downstream, already absorbed

in that dark river light into which

we're constantly rowing.

Dan Gerber