This one has no title.
Fish are the soul of delight.
You can never be better than your father.
The knuckles the face makes bring you up short
in the water.
Did you come here to drown?
The flowers would eat anyone if it meant a living.
Spring the locks.
Loosen the belts down from the roof.
The borscht is getting colder, and my father is getting older.
Late father is getting older.
One wants the song from mother since what we eat we are.
Mother, it's me, calling from under the water for a hot meal
and memory's candle.
For fish, feather, fowl, and man.
For a stone that would reach me.