Blue Fish
Red Fish

Plug On

That’s the way we do it.
In the early mornings,
far into the night.
on planes, in cafes,
during a work break.
We turn the words over,
in our heads while walking
or driving to the supermarket,
or taking the children to school;
our worlds over,
to churn out the stories,
cast our nets wide
to pull in the memories
of our heartaches,
the sorrow of our dreams,
the lost child, the collapsed lung,
the broken wing.
The fear in them.
There we meet the flowers
that bordered the house,
the cans we kicked,
the bicycles we rode,
the knees we scraped.
We greet our families,
our mothers and fathers,
and the other-dead.
Always the dead,
whose bones toll the coming
of the next life and line.

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