Orbit

 

I'm floating through myself, entering through the bony socket to drift through the chambers of this sunken vessel. Schools of silvery fish dart past,spooked by an oily shadow. Here and there a form huddles in a murky corner. I brush my hand across a rotted tablecloth, open a drawer and finger the encrusted silverware. The bulbs are black and the lampshades are slick with pale polyps. I pull a book from the shelf and open it but the sodden pages melt at my touch, the words wriggling away like fry into the darkness. 

 

 

 

 (for Charles Simic, 1938-2023)