Fishing

The thought I thought I’d lost
suddenly swam back to the surface
of my mind one night.
I shot out of bed,
groped for the light,
groped for a pen,
but before I could find one
it flit away again.
That slippery thought
I’ve yet to hook
into the net
of my nightstand notebook.
But each night I cast my line once more
into a dark sleepy pond, hoping to catch
whatever it is I’m fishing for.