you wait like a fisherman
in the edge of what lakes
for not just any fish,
a specific terrain underwater
a definite current,
that makes such and such
hardier, skin rainbower, sleekier,
don’t say it’s fat
or long, and it’s enough
what feeds its meat
what horrors did its fins run off from,
what did its unblinking eyes stare at—
is what makes beautiful
that is why you crouch
and wait the wait of ages,
if you die of hunger
it is a worthier death
than to eat just whatever bites the bait.
The beautiful is worth the wait.