Nicholas Cobic

Fisherman’s Chronicles

A reminiscence of days spent fishing on the Adriatic coast

The sky is reflecting in the depth's throat
The waves dig each other's graves
Swift clouds turn into my hunger

Notorious insects pierce
The unfinished start of a day, and the sea
The sea is a crop field thinly cut by the wind's propeller

Yellow storms blossom
In the cells of a blue sun
Horizon is a nylon slipknot

Silhouettes of sea warriors in coral reefs
Where time is no longer a mystery
But the only necessity

Our backbones are cunningly greased
With olive oil, like dishpans
With the floured catch

The truth is hacked into syllables
Like a drowning man's last words
Retold in comic strips

Nights and mornings sleep in body burrows
The fruit of earth versus the fruit of sea
The rusty anchors are calling to us:

Beware the whispering shores!