A man whose other

The hoor at elbow length

Was not entirely a fish

Its abode not entirely water

Its hand not entirely

cartilage

Or rock or mussel

But finer, finer

Perhaps more slender

Than the shoulder-swirl of a (leaf)

Him, seeing now

That the water

(Not unlike

The breathless harmony

Of the flute)

Grew

A deeply limned

Music, set convex,

As if tethered

From one root of palm to the other

Set in flesh

Reddening

Like brightest autumn

His glimpsed, glitching, water-creature;

It’s love,

Percolates in a

Huge bubble of light,

His love

Turns on a hook of moon

In the fragrant rain

The poet is a columnist and the poetry editor at The Aleph Review.