Must be caught in the dark, coming on to the azaleas. Must be pulled like a long tube of snotty life, and placed in plastic cups for tomorrow’s fishing trip. Must be alive in your hand, writhing to get back there. Must know what is happening. Something that seems made of earth itself, but alive like us — but can’t be, wouldn’t be thought of in the same sentence, purely a wriggling verb not subject, dangling modifier to what is left unsaid. Something that will kiss us, ten twenty, fifty years from now, with blind, curious, penis-colored noses. Will nest in the sack of our former skin and delicately, “with no special hurry,” disassemble our remembered features until we can hear the fish we have eaten tomorrow and the lettuce we tore and chewed tonight cry out to us from their changing elements about the world inside the world inside our pounding wrists. It hurts to know. It hurts not to know. Blessed be the bright hook that delivers us from the river to the river.