The Golden Fish

after Klee, and for Bob Dylan


he has hurt eyes
this man so large
so very small
looking back at all his
years through someone else's 
lens

I see him behind
microphones, struggling
with the swimming
people below him
struggling with the
water they are in -

the fish offland from different
tidal waters, natural shores,
unnaturally placed -
could do not more
than stare, try
not to drown 
	in his air

all he ever did: his
crime: was to drink
from a fount they
could never reach
	not recognise
	not climb - fed

from another source
all they could do
was stare at him
the gawping fish, and shun,
	and he

one look -
two looks -
	he swim away

previous poem