Poetry

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Beta-Fish

Alone in his bowl, my fish clings, static,
to the inside of the surface-bubble.
After a slow moment, he gently unsticks
and spirals to the floor, sluggish, a damp kite.
The pet-store man told me that betas kill
each other. I put the small house on the morning
windowsill and watch the solitary cannibal
start again, swimming up, floating down.
Winter sky slips down the single-pane
and blurs the street behind my beta-fish.