For Ethan Canin

I sat on a dock at dusk and spoke
to the fish who swam beneath me
like ears with fins to hear my secrets.
“What words come close?” I whispered.
“The sky enters me like a sword
with my own hand on the hilt.
How to witness what I can’t express—
the smell of lilacs, the dirge of loons.
Make up the rest if you wish.
Less is enough.
Say I sound like one of the Hosts.
That I’m crying also and there’s nothing
you can do to make me stop.
That I’m like the peepers, katydids, and thrush
with my own song—all call in the opera of dusk.
Or is it response?”