This time he is trying to guide his thinking away from, “I got one.” Casting last bait, and wondering means how—enduring visions of her getaway on a loop.
Because together they might come, but she will go like late day sun, if thinking like the fisherman who caught one too full of fight to stay.
Before him, he ties together, is this lovely creation “not far off from me.” Two creatures that see with eyes of a “striking blue,” and so are often told. And two that hold regard for wonder, and sing its praise slightly off-key.
She had once said her fake fingernails made her feel pretty and so now he wants to be one. Same time she offered up a nibble at dusk, when the blue eyes met. But soon another nibble in the weeds would obscure her look, slightly suggestive of maroon.
Sure as sun sets, red toenails sink into she-says smelly shoes. She told him she digs hands and how he touched each time with two. In secret he knows of his tendency to forget what hands are for. Not just entangling and untangling; in these matters, they are intended for much more.
Disguised as a goodbye wrapped with caress, at last Fishy's hook hold wriggles undone. And off she swims, for the sinking sun, for the coming light, her eyes transposed with full moons. His memory of absorbs her waves trailing behind; that refeeling of her long slither go.
Thoughts fight back as they please while the moon takes the path of least resistance—how the celestial crows fly. Slumping shoreside, the man's eyes fix on the water's moment to moment uncertainty.
The mood is constant but with a chance.
He summons the tenacity to consider 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.
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