King Salmon

A GRAVEL deathbed for the king of fish.
Nuncle, the mad Kingfisher had you hooked
From birthrise, hauled and schooled, and heaved
From saltsea silver up brown rapids run
To rest your milt-white crown upon these stones.
Hear how the windy guts of gulls
Rejoice above your ghost beginning now.
They growl for so much Godspent majesty.

You are alone and home now, nuncle. Rest.
The carcasses of all your rock-whipped sons
Will boil this stream where famished birds
Wheel as their fathers wheeled and rose and fell.
To rest in rotting flesh is sanity.
Die well, for you were most mad all your life,
Left every quaking net torn in your wake,
Ended the painful flight of being born.