Fish are everywhere,
and the water here is thick,
viscous; gelatinous.
Fish of all shapes and sizes:
red, yellow, ghost-grey,
aquamarine.
I watch their mouths.
I watch them open and close
as pin-prick bubbles pour out of scaled lips
and stoic faces; they rise:
the bubbles, and float to the molten glass surface of a liquid universe
only to burst and explode into the stark nothingness above,
perhaps adding an infinite trace of volume to the ocean of air
which rests upon the bruised shoulders of an already crippled sea:
like the vapored prayers of the tiniest child adds to the amount of injustices
the world can posses.
Dead fish float around, too; milk-shaded bellies all pointing towards the on-looking yellow of
the sun.
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