of the molecules of the water they will
swim in, that flow by my citybounded
abode in a tidal estuary
heading fir dispersal and aspersions
into the Great Atlantic Ocean
which I will visit
come the spring,
and are etched yet then
within the relentless
waves of the those very same atoms, upchurning and upspitting
white foam which will
very lively likely contain
new poems, perhaps,
perhaps even,
those writ by fish
in their dreams,
for who actually knows
the original origins
of the dreams
we drink daily,
not I,
who finds them
when the wet smoke of
fog of evaporated
water
kisses my lips!

P. S. perhaps I have written poems
authored by the very same fish
you held in your grasp once upon
a time in a photo)