one day he imagines
a million silver fish
assembling a pond
as the day burns
a single star
into its surface
permanently now
he gets down
reaches
soon his finger
attracts the dry heat
on the water
then a fish weaves
dark to startling dark
like something
that had once slipped
out of his hands
and he stops
(he’d hoped to draw it out,
bear it home, use it’s heat
to wipe away
the darks that settle
into corners, cracks,
under tables,
behind the eyes)
the star remains, clings
untouched, unmoved
an eye watching
permanently now
as he rises
one day he imagined
a million fish assembling
the water
a single star
a motive
what he missed
and misses
is some discolor
on the water
some shadow
of his own
something more
than sun
to carry home
in his hands
