A poem

I waited though wanting nothing,
then waited longer.
As if by that I might
become again
the carved and painted lure—
Its two iridescent eyes that stay always open,
its stippled gold sides, deep-orange back,
red threads attached at the gills.
I hummed with its three-pronged shine
of fish who are sweet and fat to the birds above them.
I hummed with its three injured notes to the fish below.
To all the blue-winged, handless distances
and all my blue-finned, handless lives,
I hummed
in borrowed Swedish and the iron-hiding slip of gleam—
The great strangeness still may come, even for you.