Aquarium
The fish are drifting calmly in their tank,
between the green reeds, lit by a while
glow that passes for the sun.
Blindly, the blank glass that holds them
in displays their slow progress from end
to end, familiar rocks set into the gravel,
murmuring rows of filters, a universe
the flying fox and glass cats, Congo tetras,
bristle-nose pleocostemus all take for
granted, yet the platys, gold and red,
presist in leaping occasionally, as if
they can't quite let alone a possible -
of wings, maybe, once they reach the air?
They die on the rug, we find them there,
eyes open in surprise.
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