I hear you harbor all the bluegills in your blood and you spend your nights collecting gull feathers and fish hooks
too old to use.
Your fingertips calloused.
I've never seen, but heard, your eyes go on and on with scales and holiness.
The algae has gathered behind your ears.
Do me a favor and put those arms straight up; let the worthy see the gills that slice, slantwise, your ribs.
Why didn't life let you drown?