(Based on a line by Pablo Neruda)

Lunar, solar, burning and cold, all at once,
Becalmed in the throat of the fortunate isles.
Grasping at waves of ideality,
A fisherman’s net snags a lushly fruitful bounty-
With a skillfulness taught
Through motivation acquired
By the throat of the fortunate isles-
Contentment contrasting apathy, sun ray warmth pervading.
Raise the net to find oneself stuck.
Baffled, this jumble of rope now near to void
-Lunar lights lingering.-
The sole occupant a singular man
Whose sole catch is but an encumbering, burning, writhing ball of scribbles.
Violently thrashing through the waves, interrupting what sought after flow.
Vacillation abound, scramble rampantly for the first grasp to untangle.
A maelstrom of loose ends,
so simultaneously pull,
pull all the lines.
The water is
cold.