in the aquarium city, all lust turns glass once, i sold my gills for a fried onion. floated on my back & tried to remember breathing with you in our tight apartment rooms before there were so many ways to be contained. i seek out decorations: colorful pebbles & a plastic fern. talk the algae into writing rhymed poems. there used to be a service for a few nickles, a man would come & be your father for the day. he would teach you how to swim & teach you how to sink to the bottom of your life. it has long since gone out of business but still the flyers are pasted to tanks. they read, "who doesn't need someone to watch them trying?" the buses float belly up & blinking. cat's cradle electric wires promise we could be dry again but i don't believe it. hope is a necessary something. not quite evil but not quite good. i have tricked myself into believing in airplanes & trips to white sanded beaches & loving someone without hunger. i eat very old pieces of heaven. try not to mind the sour of what once dangled high above. it's the coming down that's the hardest part. here is the depth again. when i swim to the surface of my smallness even i can see the mountain. we all say it's growing & will one day eclipse the sun but who is to say. what i cling to is the thought that one say i will slip into another's aquarium. find them terrifingly alone & they will talk the years away with me. we will watch stop lights & try to remeber being children with solid legs. our mothers in their viking burials, still trying to get us to work with our hands. instead, i can admit i have always labored with my heart. left the rest behind. took lessons from dead whales & each startled eye of a school of sardines.