the nature of entanglements

                                








                                             The Net

                                                       by



                                             Raymond Carver

 









 

         Toward evening the wind changes. Boats
         still out on the bay
         head for shore. A man with one arm
         sits on the keel of a rotting-away
         vessel, working on a glimmering net.
        He raises his eyes. Pulls at something
         with his teeth, and bites hard.
         I go past without a word.
        Reduced to confusion
        by the variableness of the weather,
        the importunities of my heart. I keep
        going. When I turn back to look
        I'm far enough away
        to see that man caught in a net.










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