|Apr/May 2010 Poetry|
After a few days, the fish in the globe
stops swimming in frenzied circles. The pond
has shrunk and the current now comes
in the form of water poured from above.
The surface skims with wrinkles that pass as clouds.
At night he swims predictable pathways,
coaxing sleep. At breakfast a flake appears.
He calls it a leaf fallen from a branch.
He does not ask questions. He calls no one
daughter. And yet, he misses his twin. In glimpses
she darts in the opposite direction.
At meals she appears and she kisses him.