What fish are you?

What fish are you?

Are you this autumn-yellow tree?

Or the bank of dark clouds,

across the car park?

I’m blindfolded. I grope and pin at you

This, a red shoelace,

This, a rosette, pink heart

This, an image of a studio flat

Nobody to tell me I missed the spot, yet

Or hit, stick.

The heart

the hungry bugger

Becomes a hot mess, preoccupied,

Fed one embrace

A quiet moment sharing grapes

And the dark, beautiful city

                the people flickering through the streets

Oh to stop the slipperiness.

I am the timer, ticking on the kitchen counter.

Are you rising

in the oven?