On some distant island The fish swim – In the air And upside-down. And they talk like people And they talk unlike people And they always look silly. I’m sure of it.
I know because I want to know.
Has a curious vision-arrow ever glanced your eye, Forsaking your pupil and enjoying your iris? One or two have mine. I think to the bowman always:
A black hole, and at least as complex, But not a hole of darkness. Nay, in my own, I see the fish. An extravagant concavity that appears convex.
Eye – flipped funnel Man – flipped funnel The mind works like class notes, Disheveled.
A realm of those aqueous creatures Can’t be possible and Must be possible because I want it to be.
Even holes are filled with earth, air, ether Even funnels.
Who is to tell me That my fish can’t have their reality elsewhere? Some infinite alternity where Things go and are made And holes, filled, are emptied?
Who to tell me? A man who sees colors To describe to a man who sees black Some ethereal place Which is neither black nor color?
No.
On some distant island, The fish don’t fly – They swim in the air.