Fishy and the Kosmos

This time he was trying to guide his nature far away from, “I got one.”

Casting last bait, wondering means how—looping visions of her getaway.

Because together they might come, but will go like late day sun,

If thinking like the fisherman who got one too full of fight to stay.

Sure as sun rises, red toenails sink into she-says smelly shoes,

Blood exits white knuckles, squeezing tighter to the reel’s winding core.

She told him she digs hands and how he touched each time with two.

In secret he knew of their barbed hooks—a tendency to forget what hands are for.

Before him, he tied together, was this creation “not far off from me.”

Two creatures that saw with eyes of a “striking blue,” or so were often told.

And two that held regard for wonder, and sang its praise slightly off-key.

An intuitive thought snagged him: “Hands hold no good in letting good unfold.”

She had said her fake fingernails made her feel pretty and so he wanted to be one.

She offered a nibble and the blue eyes met, only to insist on maroon.

Their slip-sliding flesh together one last time, his hook hold came undone.

and off she swam for a sinking sun, for tomorrow’s light, and the coming full moon.

The memory stayed of her long slither go; thoughts fought back when they pleased.

The moon always hovered above coming and going, constant but with a chance.
Looking up he got used to his reflection in Blue, and found its hookless Ease.
But every now and then he stared down into any-moment uncertainty.

If ever that fishy rose to surface, and lost fight in these two salved hands, 
then soft-lit circles might ripple out perfect, like rulings made by moon: 
So the Kosmos be.