And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound

How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.

Would the big ones ******* knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?

Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?

Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?

Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?

The world blew air - soft yet unrelenting.
As if drawn from bottomless lungs.
Breathing life into leaves that once hung limp.

This breeze...
That I found oh so familiar.
It's the scent that catches me unaware,
my world would halt for a brief moment as
I'd stop to ponder the where, the when
and perhaps the who.

Sometimes I'd remember...

These days I'm afraid I'd cease to...

A seven year old blue eyed doll of a young boy dancing and running in the sand
The seagulls flew over his head swooping down trying to catch
a snack or meal on the beach
He ran to greet them and kept returning
His great grandfather used to name them all
As I told him, he asked if he knew them?
I guess he did I replied
Thinking he is smiling down as his great grandson
runs with the gulls
His great grandfather's words are alive in his heart

A man wearing only a sodden overcoat and one dress shoe
led a seasick stallion by a rope along the beach
slowly, so slowly
like their ship that descended the ghostly green.

He said to me, "No kiss of yours can replace deck and cabin,
keel and hold. No woman is as precious as the next breath."
Sadly, so sadly
he wandered away, wearing only one earring and a felt hat.

I was, then, a Multilingual Sister of the Silent Bell
and led the abandoned animal through our courtyard
carefully, so carefully
so as not to disturb the stillness with the thunder of his heart.

Wearing only a sundress and carrying one rope sandal,
I know now that summer pavers are warmer than a drowning man.
Slowly, sadly, carefully,
I flowed that day like water from the stone of Samarkand.

She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
half-finished carpentry jobs,
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.

The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.

Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.

Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his-
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft follows smoke and cedar,
distant wildfires.

Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement-
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.

Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.