Fishing
Say, my pretty ones, my gay little fish,
won't you follow this way;
leap and flash where I dandle my net
at the sun-shallow shelf of the deep?
Here your colours may sing and be safe:
no treachery baits this hook;
no lie waits to flap and gape
in the burning, fathoming air.
If the worm turns, a fish-eye fades,
fastens and fixes to a stare;
and such a net will fester and stink
till it quickens to crawl anew.
My silver sweets, only follow this way
and turn your sad faces to the sun.
My jewelled darlings, my pretty fish,
what awaits you in the down-dark deep?
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