Everywhere I go, I now have my dying, black
angel in tow. Fish as spiritual,
in the jumping and trawl of dreams,
to eat, as cutting to truth.
I wonder,
what this shared meal will mean for us?
Cold swimming, armless leaping’s and slashing of?
Yes, it must mean,
an ending, that much clear in our devouring.
But a day later, I don’t think it’ll be the wolfing,
of devout, dappled yolks,
or no-hope in song,
the cutting out of the orange,
warmth of us,
sleeping under the looming loch,
of sunset.
Woolen, native blanket, the one,
I bought and brought you back,
from my lone-soul sojourn to the desert.
Sun-slivers to wrap around your,
opaque and owlish eyes.
Will the sword of this fish cut us from a braying mule’s braids?
The plaits I could not sever with my sewing scissors,
the slow-goo paralysis of limbs in dreams,
especially knot, when you two were a rowboat,
on laps of ceaseless seas of laughter.
Sitting near the old pipe-organ,
in the former Salem house,
blood splatters, under flipped-on-switch,
a confusing buzz of fluorescence flashed,
that the guts of filleting were a mere printing,
red, rose-blooms, swum on the white cotton,
of cold-starched pillowcases.
Photo Credit: Marlin/Creative Commons
