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345 Not the Poet, Not Me The Gospel According to Lucas Paula Bohince The day’s meanest pleasure: threading worm after worm, entire length and breadth, onto our hooks— souls hardened, visible at last beneath translucent flesh. This, and the praise my boss offers as payment, calling me son, goddamning my gifts, while the fish, experts in the discipline of water, the element we borrow, fell for our tricks, landing pathetic, heavy in the basket between us: the bluegill we should have sent back, easy between our hands, bluegill we will not eat or admire. Our lines cast out softly from the furred edge of sedge, algae, my intent to be a good man filled with mercy erasing as evening overwhelms, as the argument within myself increases in sense and volume. ...

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