Poem by the Charles River Poem by Robin Blaser

It is their way to find the surface
when they die.
Fish feed on fish
and drop those beautiful bones
to swim.
I see them stretch the water to their need
as I domesticate the separate air to be my
breath.
These fish die easily.

I find my surface in the way they feed.
Their gathering hunger is a flash like death.
No agony
as if
my mind had eaten death.