The pond is one of the world’s hearts.
From time to time
some scaly fish of the past
beats up from the slime
like an old ache or love, then sinks again.
Crickets are pulsing in the wrist of night.
Sleep lays a hand on them and me
but forgets to count.
By morning, sit up! The pond is in
the clouds. Night in a robe of stars
did some alchemy, changed water
to nothing
and the old creatures are exposed
in hard air. What kind
of motel is this anyway?
Maybe it’s Oklahoma
with rains of fish,
and the frogs, evicted for weeping,
falling out of Room 103,
their toes spread like stars.