An empty bag
Blown full by the wind
Dances
Like a fish fighting against the tide.
Earlier it lay face down on the road
Crusted up on its edges.
Flat.
But the wind brings the dance
And the bag is aloft.
An apparition;
A battling fish.
Please come home soon.
Im sick of lying dead-flat.
Make wind
And breathe air into
Me.
So we may swim.
