Fish. My eyes were sleepy
fish and in the overcast
world the road to work was mud.
Then something near a pond

turned my head. A black bird’s
banded wing made the perfect
lure, the gay colour a hook
without hurt, a blushing

wash. Now further on on
this shoulder of the high
way even the gravel and
asphalt greys overflow

their textures. They’re so clear
I feel more than awake. Oh
to stay and swim in there here
would be