Fish rise in dark water of my dreams,
Pinpricks against perfection, ripples
Rolling lugubriously outward,
The fish I suspect at day-dawn
Mere ideas, distant and far away,
Uncatchable as the fish that mime them.
To be human is to suffer vague hints,
Intentions, source unknowns,
The lake is but ambiguity
If a lake at all and not something else,
We seem limited by the real which ain’t.