• The Fish
  • I don't suppose
    my heart was ever
    warm and red
    like this before.

    I sense that

    in the worst moments of this black, death-feeding repast
    a thousand thousand well-springs of sunlight,
    stemming from certitude,
    well up in my heart.

    I sense, further, that

    in every nook and cranny of this salt barrenness of despair
    a thousand thousand joy forests,
    stemming from the soil,
    are suddenly springing.

    Oh, lost certitude, oh, sea-creature

    fleeing in the concentric,


    mirroring pools,

    I am the clear pool:

    mesmerized by love,
    search out a path for me
    among the mirror pools.

    I don't think
    my hand was ever
    strong and alive
    like this, before.

    I sense that

    at the flow of blood-red tears in my eyes
    a duskless sun pours forth a song.

    I sense that

    in my every vein,
    in time with my every heart beat,
    the warning bell of a departing caravan tolls.

    She, bare, came

    one evening
    through the door
    like the soul of water.

    At her breast
    two fish
    In her hand a mirror
    Her wet hair,

    moss fragrance, intertwined moss.

    On the threshold of despair,
    I bellowed: Ah, oh retrieved certitude.

    I won't put you again aside.