Three Poems

A Small Ode to Faith

for Bill Manhire

Seated, as we were, eleven rows
          inside the hungry belly

                     of the faithful, our religion was
fishing. And it was our religion

          made us fishermen. We were ushered
                     down the long aisle of

a pier, at the end of which murmured a vast
                     green harbour. Between

                     a bucket of slop and the entangled talk
of a dozen water-logged men

          we professed all that we now clove to:
                     the fish with piano accordion gills

stirring in an orange bucket
          the detachable heads of trumpeter
...