In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

37 Thinking of Li Po while Fishing the Little J I’ve known fishermen who have died in the river, drunk on wine, trying to embrace the moon’s reflection. I’ve known others fished out of the water who cried after their own deaths when the moon disappeared behind a cloud. This evening, just before dark, the moon’s hand made rough brushstrokes on the river’s paper-surface, and trout, intoxicated on green caddis flies, slept in an eddy beneath the fallen body of a willow. In their dreams these fish waited for the wind to rise, for chokecherry blossoms to be cast upon the water— flowers purling around stone, as beautiful and white as the hands of the dead. ...

Share