I could see goldfish boy

when he came home one morning.

He had a black eye on his face

and no bags.

 

And on his hands that pale day

there was a bowl.

And in the bowl in his pale hands,

there was a little goldfish.

 

Goldfish boy spoke soft and tender,

and walked on broken glass.

Blue were his eyes, 

blue his hands.

 

He was tall as tall can be

and I was small.

Yet when we spoke I spoke like towers

and he didn't speak at all.

 

Goldfish boy held my hand

he was afraid of the speed of sound.

I held him tight and he spoke not

and we faded together.

 

Then one day I found the bowl

the water a deep green

and I saw as the little fish

was floating upsidedown.