From the Fishouse

I threw it and it flew away.
It grew surly and phosphorus first,

sobbed and wanted to know why.
Demanded breezes and geothermal fuel.

It fooled no one. It drooled.
It sobbed and wanted to know why.

I panicked, asked it, stay awhile.
It chose a room and borrowed

a blazer, the one with the copper thread.
It said I drank from impossible bottles at night,

buried letters in bags of grain,
sustained injuries

that made me difficult to understand.
Out of modesty I hid

the knife and turned up the music. It loved
to dance, first with me then with itself.