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William Fox

At some point in my sleep

my new pet fish has flung

itself from bubbling bright-

lit tank to cream slash tan

carpet, trailing the water arc

of a just turned-off fountain,

flipping to death

the full spectrum of sparks,

gone glimmering to find

a preferably dank captivity

a hope of friends beyond

the bloke in the brass diving suit

playing statues since he arrived.

Instead, you’ve slammed

the side of everything

the dawn step from my bed.

My thoughts, then, of how

it would have felt to squish you

are much worse than

the real thing: scenarios

of sprawling blood-slippage,

hydraulic-pressed digestive

tract, even just the liver touch

of unexpected slimy life

that time of the morning.

My parents, whisking in

with a tissue, count their

blessings that I missed.

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