First a spout
all that blue with the sun clanging on it,
then a slope,
wheeling, almost slowly,
through the blue air, and four times—
or maybe five—I see her dive,
the dark fluke flaring,
silhouetted, raised heavy for a moment into all that light.
If I paddled a canoe or could swim that far, we might meet,
her great eye opening to my small one, each cornea
bending the light,
setting off the translation into vision, gazing
into the dark pupil of the other.
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