Sometimes I cast my longing like a line,
Watch it sink deep and deeper in the blue
Immoderate waters that are dreams of you,
Flooding the parched land that is sleep of mine.
Impassively I float the pale hours through,
With quiet eyes upon the quivering twine,
Aware of lurking shapes that give no sign
Of rising, though they move as fishes do.
Your hands, your hands, a thousand multiplied,
Cool, slim, and wary, darting to and fro,