There are no bluefish. Only
stories about bluefish. Like unicorns they thrive
in the imagination, in the motherwit sea
out of which we stepped originally,
not this we drive
to each evening. We park the car on the bluff.
We take our shoes off.
Holding long rods we walk down
to the dividing line between two kingdoms to join
the other dreamers
already casting their lures.

We stand,
barefooted, ankle deep, knee-deep,
in the push pull seacrash, sinking in sand,
becoming more deeply rooted, casting into the wind,
trying to get out beyond the curled lip
of the third wave -- the agreed-upon
line beyond which the hungry creatures of our imagination
must some night
run, and why not
this one -- now, now, before the still-
building wave, there, breaks, prayer being part of the ritual.

Nothing. There are no
bluefish, only stories about them. We dream
standing up -- a long row
of adult men who should know
better, leave now, go home.
It is not yet
dark, but the tinted jet,
the pink shipside
riding the horizon, will soon turn black. The tide
will turn. It would be beyond reason to hope then.
The tide turns. We stand there, cast out in invisible lines, beyond reason.

The floor shifts underfoot. The walls rise
and crumble.
Whose house
is this?

Kneel,
shaken, your brain shrunk
to a scaled button: fear, hunger. Sink
into the half-dark, the dark. Dive! And, surprisingly buoyed up, rise, light,
to feed. Strike. Fight.
Not to be landed. Ever. The sea is all imagination! But the hooks are set.
How will either of us get

rid of this dream buried deep in our flesh
except by dying?