You speak loosely.

Is it unclear? a ghost fish rise —

rippling outward, bending sunset arms

in a tiny pond like waves through a heart —

is evidence of unspoken hurt.

Each firefly gulped from the dark surface

like a dying spark against sunset and water’s reflection

is hope gone from memory and no reminder

of the fish dwelling underneath

or the repetition of feeding on others.

So you loose words that fetch you no gain?

Suppose that ripple grows from a pebble

once on the shore, now resting in belly silt,

a gall stone, a well dressed whore.  A life

of small concentric circles lessening in touch,

orbiting weaker versions of themselves,

broadcast from a single point

where the surface broke,

hide muddled waters

and a pile of pebbles

cast one at a time.