Dead Fish

Central air is like a ghost of oxygen;
I notice the strangest things.
Just the other day
I watched the leaves and the rubbish
make beautiful love in the snow.
A paper clip,
Bent in unmeasurable angles
sent a shaft of blaze against the white, imponderable walls.
Then everything went beautiful
and I was caught in one moment with only a dead fish in my hands.
Not the kind that grants any wishes.
A cup of hot coffee
begs for me to look on its bottom;
I might find truth there.
Glass on the wall
encasing sharp images
stabs me in the eye.
I am forced to stare all day.