Poetry of Robert Fisher
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Twice have I tried to sculpt my son,
Sculpt him in gold,
Him falling, falling
In that black cavern.
Twice have my hands failed me,
Twice have they forgotten their skill.

In a human chain
I held my wife’s hand
And she our son’s hand,
The three of us linked,
Climbing the steep slope
Toward the light
At the cavern’s mouth.

The mother could not resist
To look upon her son’s face,
To look upon his so young face,
Before we reached the air
Rich in birds and at dusk
In flying beetles and cicadas,
The air that bites with oxygen,
The sun that sweats the skin,
The smell of sweat,
And our son’s hand loosens
And he falls down the black cavern.

In the late afternoons
We see near the reeds
Electric fish flashing on
And flashing off their yellow light,
Or is it just the sun on the water,
Its golden image broken into bars
By the wavelets near the reeds?

November 21st, 2016