Strangers in owl-light,
all I know of you is swarming
in the gray curl off a Winston
we pass back and forth
and in the supple body of a fish
who overextends its hunger
onto the bank where we are,
the terrible flapping like choking
one will live through,
embarrassed by the near-
death of it once air returns, like we
are embarrassed by our
own hunger, knees and guts
making words for this
like spun light
makes kaleidoscope --
then you make
toward my hand
with your hand but
fall short to grass, instead,
palm down on the blades
who knows why
my throat becomes a fisted hand
instead of a hand that reaches
to pull yours up
and warm it
just under the collar
of my shirt.