to the coy pond he moves
like a cricket boat might, a leaf
headed to shore. These fish
require words
he could only whisper
in a lighted room. But
she says, “What?”
So he changes the voice:
“Pull the trip. Pull
down the night.” And
he dives. Hears fish
say, “To be ghost is a missed chance.
There were other times when
you should have gone.” But
what did she hear? A riffle?
A bullet ricochet off water
and crawl into sand? Someone
tangles. Someone finds
that they live alone.
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