TROUT   [ 2 ]


See you slip from me, fish
vernixed, reddened
a scattering of white hair
mushed by pressure
eyes searching for colour.

Fingers splay into the star stubs
among the constellations of wax crayons
milky chalks
smeared on paper and
concrete driveways.

Nothing changes about you and
yet everything.
Symmetry, motion. Pictures
of you stretching skin.
Hair like cooked albumen.

Now. Littering our house
with sounds
the thought of you
fills me up
and paints me many shades of green.

—Belinda Diepenheim
   © 1997