The Spoken Fish
I took the liberty of waking up at
2:37am. It’s gonna go by so fast.
I’m thirsty, bring me a towel.
Proving to myself that I’m very
set in my ways. In formal dress
domestic remarks reel into a corpus
known as stanzas (B. Guest). I
ate a pear – or – I thought about
eating a pear. The first phrase, be-
ing fiction, begs what is thought?
Be, I guess. And what to do with
all of the love. As I slip into sense,
there are three items of fruit on a
table to my left. Taking an elegant
knife into its plump, green-dimpled
dress, a drippy red blotch of moon,
which portion of the world am I?
