We walk the tracks in the dark
with a six pack and lit Camel Lights
as flashlights and bug dope, chicken livers
and sharp hooks jostle in tackle boxes, down to the abandoned
mill – Billmyer – and the quarry, its quartz swimming pool blue
water held back by rock. We sit on the white cliff culm piles
and say we are fishing for catfish but just smoke a whole pack
and get a buzz from cheap beer.

Sometimes I think we are still sitting, smoke
melding the night to our fingers and lips.

Sometimes I think that we went there in a dream
that is still living in the sleeping body of our youth.

Sometimes I think we fell in love with a dark river,
turning our backs to the dawn, keeping its faint orange spread
in the corner of our eyes, watching it chase our gods under water.