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.
© 2007 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.
