koi 

i watched the men come to feed
the koi fish outside the library.
they aren't impatient, they eat 
out of hand with 
please-let-me-kiss-you mouths. 
the water pours, a running sink.
i wonder if the fish sometimes 
look up & contemplate the building.
i want to kneel by the water
& read to them, tear out
the pages of an old book &
let them float in the water.
i'd start with the pages of a
dictionary, the letter 'A'
like a building. would they 
contemplate moving there--
to a place with such 
an angled roof. the people come
& go. i think that in another
life that you were a koi fish.
i don't know exactly why i say
this, but when i see the fish 
all congregated in the water 
i imagine myself
stepping in, kneeling,
kissing you on the forehead.
it could be something about
the way your body flows--
a gust, a fist full of 
wind chimes. i could ask 
you to reach up & unscrew
the moon but it's already in
the water. maybe we both were.
i touch the surface with only
one finger-- the ripples,
a new quiet species. the koi, 
writing their verses on 
the library windows.
their language of mouth 
& air. a tail rhythm.
there's one koi fish 
with a great red dot 
on its forehead & you
told me that she would 
be sought after in japan:
Tancho Kohaku. i ask her
to borrow the sphere
& she hands it over eagerly.
i keep it in my pocket 
in case we ever need another
sun. i could make it into
a ring & slip it onto
your finger while you're
asleep. will you tell 
me stories, tell me 
fish stories? i'll tell 
you mine-- the lamps
along the walk way obscuring
in the water, a ripple
as a necklace.