How many minnows, unnumbered as stars,
hang silver still in these warm tidal pools,
a vast progeny cradled by sand bars
while the sun unwinds as from golden spools

I am huge among them, these tiny fish
that hang just below the air’s interface.
I think of Faberge, that school’s relish
in the miniature, in pride of place.

The minnows surround me. I am the hole
in the doughnut about which they revolve,
each a limpid instance, fish without bowl,
each a riddle no art can solve

Singing so, I paint fleeting immersion
Of breath, each has only his own version.

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