Yet another Red Fish poem [2002]

(for Tanya)

What color would he turn in the sun
if his skin was already angry ruby red
and his eyes a golden fire?
Would, with all the gaiety of summer's swelter,
he leap from his watery bonds
and dance upon the stones,
tailfin for feet,
all the hues of the rainbow
blinding, glinting, winding
back through the clear, blue sky
to the source of that fusion furnace?
And does not Apollo, on his daily rut,
pale with envy green
when the Red Fish glimmers music,
music, the colors so bright?