Dreams Of Dying Fish

In dreams of dying fish,
In the upstream current of invisible waters

Where all life fades to a single fish bone in time,

The scales shine like a gallery of broken mirrors
In which I see myself and others

As they would be inside water, or the light inside the water.
These are fish, I say, though no one hears.

These are the fish of our laughter, and the fish of our dying.
These are the gleaming, dying fish on the flat boards of the dock

That flail and curve their bodies in the death-J spasms of ecstasy,

Fish

That parted the water as it closed over them
Like the fingers of a goddess who touched them

Everwhere at once.

We could be them in another life; we could be them now.
We could be that mound of fish with our mouths still open,

Slipping past hoops of iridescent fire,

Past the bent fenders of fatal accidents,
Past the septic tanks gleaming like bombs in trailer parks,
Past the new glass buildings of AT & T,

Into the sun that ties each of us in water.

We could not change air into water,
We could not do it again;

We could not change our cold blood into something the sun could use, We have landed on the bleached boards to die.

I would throw salt over your dying bodies,
I would let the waves roll over you, scattering your poor dumb stars

if only you would show me the mystery of shining things,
or why we shine like you,

why I keep falling out of the pit of your mouths
to speak of brightness, dying and light

before the nets come again to sweep you away.