All in Heaven

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The goldfish are not strong. They do not

commandeer the room or counter where

their glass container sits as it accrues the benign hair-

like algae that clouds everything. The pot

of painted coins has spilled into its same spot

for so long I can recall its shape well. Nowhere

is more important than the plastic chair

that lets me watch their bright shadows wrought

behind the glass, where they are adrift

and for themselves and confined to a space. I know

there is a love they do not speak. I know I wish

they could. I mouth the words until my brow,

sunk, weeps. Until it is in me, and I am the goldfish.

They are me, they are in heaven now.

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Fluid Astrology 

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I am affected by the bodies I have heard of 

floating in heaven. They are spheres 

drawn through space as if by threads 

arranged in paths to look like light 

but that are interpreted more correctly 

as information. I am affected 

by their instructions sung 

into my ears, which function because 

the ear is filled with fluid. There is no earth 

in my chart. There is water 

in my midheaven. I unravel from my beliefs 

and find new ones. I must weep 

for the tide in my veins’ blood — 

it is blinded by its search for more blood.