State road sixty-three tends to chase
the river, the way a sinner’s turpitude
turns back for his redemption, upstream toward
the mountain source. Where this anointing weighs
into the murky Pecos, brown trout worry
with their sixty spots of fire in the stillnesses
beside the currents. We crave the wilderness
beneath each flat black beside the hurry.

Below my line, trout long in the sunshine
of dreams. The Spirit makes these flames almost
real when this vision wakes within my wrist.
In the white way falling through a blue place the sign
points travelers to Cowels or Holy Ghost.
Which direction do you think I fished?