When he slapped the water’s surface

with softness, I stood in awe. How

he flipped that fly onto that shoulder

of a cola-colored eddy, I did not

know but surely saw. Sugar

maples, white cedars, oak, beech

spectating hawkishly from those banks,

urging to be our gods. Yes,

I could not not stare at

those honey-drenched arms,

Michigan’s June sun saying:

like that. Recognizing whispers

from what I believed my

beloveds below the gloss. I had

neglected them till next time.

What I’m saying is, one moment

I exist in spillage, drooling hard,

the next I’m sucked downward into

this smallish hole torn by old voices,

my halo snatched off my head, saturating

diluted sweetness. All this

and still a perfect drift, still

a question of whether

a nonbeliever turned holy

or whether anybody else

devours perfection presented

like that upstream.