Here, where the skeins have grown heavy with maybe
salmon at best, where even the choicest bait’s gone
green—the strongest lines left snapped like string; here, where
charges dropped in the deep only rock the dark
water in its banks instead of setting spine
toward surface; here have I crept, combing
for a face among years of grotto waters. Still
I cannot fathom her. On some nights, when I skirt
the edges of this black loch, unpicked, tracking
her spoor between the lingering screams of blue
loons, I try to recall how first I stumbled
on obsession.
                              Don’t ask me just how long
I’ve looked for signs of imminent return. Easy
enough to say it’s sickness, that I’ve suffered
always a fascination with wanting