And the last poem is also the last poem in Chihuahua.
It's called "Fishermen."
I think it's fairly clear one thing
though, needs to be mentioned.
The a hand grenade, a special kind of hand grenade
is mentioned at the end of the poem.
It's a phosphorus grenade.
And phosphorus is a chemical that burns very hot and bright,
when it's exposed to air.
And it also leaves very serious wounds
that don't heal very well.
We had them when I was in the service.
And if the drop of phosphorus, say, lands on your arm,
there's no way to put it out.
The gravity would just pull it through until it drops out
the other side.
So it's a pretty nasty thing.
Also very beautiful when you quote.
Called fishermen.
Up all night while his wife sleeps.
A statue of the Virgin knocked over.
His graduation.
The moon comes down splitting into 12 small disciples.
Dodging through the salt cedars.
Sheep nibbling, rubbing their black lips
across the windowpane.
But he shoes them away, cutting bait for hours.
First the width of sandwich bread, then thinner
transparent down to slides of agate flesh.
Without thinking, he is there on the cold substantial bank.
The fog, a nuzzling The cousins of his legs.
Running off toward itself over the water.
That first whirling of the lasso around his shoulders.
His elbow going soft towards the joint.
Walking into the butterfly of agony and delight takes hours.
When it hits, he awakes to the fish amazed.
Ice stone shooting from the watery flesh.
A bearded meteor head, he falls back.
Sack of chocolates at the other end of the looping line.
The cigars in his pocket flame, his head a ripe thistle,
a phosphorous grenade.
Thank you for coming tonight.
[APPLAUSE]