ice fishing in july

we cut a hole in the sun with a can opener.
saw hot-glow fish thrash like irises.
our skin peeled off to the bone & we were 
skeleton-shadows on the dry grass.
hunger is the hand of worry. how how how.
summer, unpocketable no matter how hard
we try to fold & fit. wanting to carry days
like saltines. a nail in the wall to hold a cross. 
basement safe from ocean but not safe
from fatherhood. crouching to lick fingers.
faucet whispering one one one. how should
we close our entrances? keep a backpack full
of doorknobs. accept defeat & windspeed.
get the fire going. afterall, this is the desert.
rubber shoes melted by the UV rays. 
violet teeth to put in the dishwasher.
there was no sign of rain but the clouds
told their own tall tales of mercury
asking god each year to make himself smaller.
our deserves are more celestial & less bodily 
than we think. once, a star perched on my sill
& talked to me as rudely as a car alarm.
i shooed him off & then felt guilty.
it is nearly impossible to say what we 
really mean. i don't really mean ice fishing.
i mean standing on a precarious surface
& not becoming the underneath. i mean fish muscle.
i mean the cold unknown waiting to future us.
tomorrow is a new spell of string. 
the fish are ravenous for air.