Fish

the fish arrived in their position to communicate slippery with scales and a fragility that dries out quickly from the submergence of opaque Waters the drown man and woman in any moment of desperation an illusion of death May mark their finality but they shine like fireflies in the darkest of places I sit here wondering with my fishing rod without all the, without the crinkles in my skin, without the Sun Browning my skin I sent without the glass hour or any other marker of time the cool Moon sets the sail that lures the fish of infinite motion my bait are my hands with their symbolic grip my hook is made with a delicate care a web catching blanket the picks up the bubbles that emerge from the depths of the gurgling and everburning fire