fish

O,
little perch.
Slender grasps of spring revival.
Thin green like that song,
reaching over the mills to rasp a note.
You break over and over
the sun, yolk round and all the animals
carry on as if nothing has passed. Not even
the name from your mouth, not even
the years that stole you away.
Don't I beg you, give up as I have,
on these imperishable trees
that carry your breath into the tower-
ing fire of their exuberant fall.
Down here, little bird
the ash coats your feathers, paves you into the roads
upon which your love goes passing
without notice of you.
Down here vanities absorb thought
until you are full of longing for forgetfulness.
I would go back to that branch,
and continue my song about the golden lady.
It is too late. I have aquired a taste for all
that stays below you, stagnant water,
comfort to a frightened fish.