there was always a chance
it would come to this:
  hope spilling out
to flood the house
as a collection of incidents, merged
  by thier own weight
  into a diffuse pool,
a sphere of air bounding out
invisibly through the trees
with myself, still at the center
no longer the container
  of what might be
but the substance used
to find along a way

each night from the misty woods
i watch a fisherman in Wales
beginning his day alone, his
floating ship, looking for life
  to take from shallow waters
  life for money, his dad
passing down, a trade made:
  one solitary freedom
  passing along the surface
  dragging down hooks
with his kids at home looking forward
to dad's chosen lots