The Empty Fish Pond of Baileard
by Jessica Reidy
The way angles cut across
the water, does not matter—
water moves as it moves.
I watch a quiet cat break the pond’s glass and close
the seam with lips.
I watch a man trade breath for life.
I meditate between the line and liquid plane
with boats and masks made of tired paper.
Flies shatter waves
with simple, heavy wings.
Backswimmers folded within crest and flow
will snatch the air, and none
make anything for time.
A dry canoe, the corners of its mouth turned
into the reeds, rests far from the dock,
all of its 90 degrees lapping the sides.
Platonic Friends by Oisín Byrne