I
Thin scales of self dry my waters
murky-lit flakes      mackled mirrors      

tilt slightly only because shaken
by silent throes      invisible current

(to swimming’s orchestra, I’ve been deaf)

latch onto nothing but fish-bone      
fish-meat under      latch and tilt
      cold      iridescent      like hot slaps

II
A native child      alone goes fishing
names me yen      (“the hologram fish”)

yen, sparkling, becomes
his first catch      his first glory and pride

Which way must yen be tilting then
in the sun?      for him to unhook the gaff
see yen soak, see yen drip      brazen
against an impossible smaragdine sky      air      
and toss it back     back to water?

III
Having gasped for it      maybe
I should not be that easily set free
I am human only like yen      craving out
of maddening iridescence            

but it’s a mean trick, child
to lift me in that air like something
      miraculous      and then toss me back

A tilt in the sun must be made to last   I know
a glint      some air briefly on the scales    
a fish, a yen      must then go back to swim
with itself      more clearly in its waters