the little fish
Carry a bowl to catch his blood,
where it sinks into the ground, there
by the yew tree. The little pond.
The little life you carved from pussy willow
and abandoned dock boards. When they ask
you, say yes, it was I, but the body
was cold for weeks before they knew
it was gone. Underwater,time is hardly
real—all minnows and sunlight
and an approximation of trees.
At the bottom, already half dead
through winter, eyes open wide.
The things you saw, there in the depths
unreal, unmarred by daylight and so
white and dark. The robin floating
the surface but never coming down.
Feathers and fins and so much red.
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