The goldfish spins, fan-tail
spread like fingers on fire.
It fast-forwards for days—
Figure-eights a whirling fury
that spills. Everything is forgotten.
It burns, a lightning-struck barn.
Its silken flesh unfurls, ribs
shine like a whittled moon.
But skin knotted into ruin
can’t stop it: the staccato jazz
your fingernail flicks don’t help.
It will never quit, you think,
until the summer morning
it’s found belly up in murky water,
still as a town ravaged by storm.
The fishbowl shimmers dark, golden
as if, in your absence, the heavens
crawled—packed stars cellophane tight;
waiting for you to shake off your impossible
dreams and bow to that half-whole reflection.