from "Clayfeld's Farewell Epistle to Bob Pack" Beneath this mellow harvest moon,
I can still picture you-a boy content
just fishing with his father from a ledge
above a foaming stream. The flailing trout
you caught is packed in gleaming ice;
the pink stripe all along its side
is smeared across black shiny dots
that seem to shine with their own light.
I'm sure that you can picture me
with equal vividness,...
Related Subjects
Poetry