A flourish of fingers as a hand
becomes an engine, a fist
begets a fish: from above
as from a footbridge a trout
becomes parentheses, flexing
open and closed, containing
an offhand remark about
life underwater (where death
can approach from any angle).
I was reeling along the narrow
pathway between stars,
where nothing was pulling me
any harder than anything else.
Graeme Bezanson grew up in Nova Scotia but now live in Brooklyn, where he works with young men with cognitive disorders. He is the editor of Cold Front.
