feb. 21, 2020
samuel mignot

For less than a second

Our lives will collide

The endless suspended

The door opened wide

And she will be born

To someone like you

What I left undone

She will certainly do

I know she is coming

And I know she will look

And that is the longing

And this is the hook

--Leonard Cohen

falling into beds we made.

Making the falls, weighed

by the pull,

making the summer

red as the sun through

our eyelids.

Though sometimes

the brightness folds, scatters:

fish darting below

the murk-line,

keeping their fiery scales.

            all I can,

    all I know:     is the singular beauty that they

are not necessary

              with you,

You do not sprinkle

fish food, as for my

soul: trying to lure brightness

instead of letting me ride out the sadness.

the fish: they swim, surface, dive, die, multiply:

you understand, things inside us

        can have lives of their own.

the pinhole catches the same world

that the window fumbles.

Lying on the ground, we hear

the sound of all things

which otherwise sink and drift

by our feet.

So the fish must be sad,

must be happy, must wait

for the hook.


    but it will drag us into the light.

the darkness peeling

as we pass through layers of water.

like eyelids getting thinner and thinner

burning up through the atmosphere of waves

                burning up into light.