Fish don’t exist. The dancing houseboat mommas go
unreflected, the boats unsmoothed, the defenestrated streams of toad beer
undiluted, in the flat, intelligent water, gliding
latherly like a blonde woman staring, through sunglasses, across
a wooden table, at a shy, not unattractive man
who I suppose is me, only I would be holding her hand
already, and I am not yet holding the water’s hand.
I am not holding the cloud’s hand but how could I complain
when I have already bitten its lip, let the light leak, like
a Polish summer, wobbled its hips and drained
its bank account. If that white cloud was a woman
she would not be a white-haired woman. She would be
a blonde, like all women. She would tell me to hold
still while she blows a fly off my eyebrow.
by Col. Baldwüllz