Two hundred feet upstream the Russian from where Their turn was, I stood deep in water and wait, Baiting the hook with a pink and silver fly That mined the dead glacier's stream for biting blood. Floods of fish...after that fly was Jonahed from Some two or three fish-bellies, that silver hook Looked bigger than life- tonight I can see it Clearly, better than faces of distant kin. Graduation not three years ago, And every memory's grown dark Except for thinking Sacred Heart Had prettier oils in candleglow. But skip down a line or two to Ireland, Standing solemnly at Drumcliffe's massive door And pouring coins in the worn collection more For WBY than for the Sligo mass. Now past, and now, and to come all ossified, I spied his stone, clean white lime, just like he said. The dead are generous; I paid rightful due, Then stole a few stones to keep the image fresh. "The DNA is mainly comprised Of junk strands, which are cut and thrown Away before the cell can grow." Soon after, the lecture was excised. I've come to the mightiest mountain on earth, In girth, at least, to wax apocalyptic. Cryptic NASA numerologies proclaim We'll see the same no-show as in '33. No worries, though- the essence is in the small And just one falling bright mustard seed will do To set the memory down in a bolder type- The fruits, though few, will be ripe. "Rhyme can not be a slave to the theme," He cheerfully nonsequitured. "Use it to spade your portioned dirt, And permit whatever will to spring."