Between Kings and Silvers
In late August, when the last kings darken
to a bruise, we wait for rain
and silvers. I strike dust
at my desk, my famous regrets
collecting it. I survey the flotsam and jetsam
of a double bed, wishing for servants.
Bills get paid. Wood is stacked.
Here, because the grass
has no memory, the sea is grazed instead.
Here, where we live by a calendar of tides,
water marries window to mirror.
I know the hopeless look
of a salmon turning
on its side.
I know the finality of the net.
When the gulls hysterical preaching calls me,
and waves of migrating birds
raft and flash—
when the rain
like a religion begins to fall—
I’ll be there, saved and filthy rich,
with a full limit, tossing leftover herring
high into the air like money.
Tom Snyder: Collected Poems 