The shoal we saw from the boat was fish; it parted as I dove through, and formed again overhead, each fish like a dancing molecule in a rock.
On the flight to Merida we came down through clouds that looked like brains or scrambled eggs, but they were only wisps and down we came.
I'd swim back up a chimney of fish and break, already squinting, back into bright air.
If love is curiosity,
I loved those fish.
Those nights I ate her, she didn't come so much as she would go.
Her cunt-lather tasted already of memory and fever-sped loss, as if I would dream again and again -- and I do -- of falling through her.
Sometimes I dream I'm her, she's me,
I'm on my back, she's eating and falling through me, and as I start to concentrate and come, my mind "wanders," as a teacher would say to chide one of our children, half of whose classmates come from "broken" homes, should one of our children stare too long out a window, imagining he could fly.
