I call it a “pond”, but —
is it really a cage made of water?
These sixteen fish
have their own lives there,
goldfish-gold and red against the murky deep
weed-green. Rain
merely dimples their world-view,
while for me it trounces
a mental dry, reliving dust’s tang
for my lost sense of smell
and re-opening thoughts shut up
in neglected nerves. Fish-flakes
I shatter on the surface
form a pattern or map of geographical confetti
that drifts several small shape-shifting continents
over seas. Fish stick
unlipped heads through each novel landmass, poking blunt holes
in dream as they feed
so-called “freedom” up to the front fins. Beginning intently
from a pink water-lily, some noiseless spider
skywalks the very first strand of tonight’s self-taught,
wholly engrossing
web.
Chinaman Creek 