My voice is gone—and I can’t even call you by name,
Just gape my mouth like a fish at evening market displayed:
Still seems alive, but a rope runs through my tremorous frame,
My eyes are dried by sun, my scales are cleansed by the blade
Of the cruel scorching wind. From first, unknowing, lost.
In oblivion I dream of you—the wave a fish dreams most.
2025.06.07