Propped on the Balustrade
Squared around
a sizable hook,
there's white bread dangling
midair from the line.
I veer left of it,
walking past captured
by the sea view beyond
and the fisherman casts
out into that immensity,
props his pole on the balustrade
that I, further down, now lean on too
coming up with questions
too big to land.
Useless would be the estimate
of my silent colleague, knowing
you catch more with what's soggy.