the old man dreams
of the worlds he created,
the photographs he sought

he travels by dawn down to a frozen pond,
all the snow living in his bones

a rosary around his neck
a rosary in his pocket,

a rosary in the ice
a rosary on a fish's lips

“la la la,”
the fish sing in his gentle palms
“it's cold – la la – ­out here,”

their a capella voices
curling like smoke across this lonely lake

their warm breath blowing
into the inherent wrinkles of his hands

they do not flounder
when their scales are wrapped in his caress
even though their lips have turned blue

the old man kisses their fins fervently
he turns them into baptized wings

“go to god,” he sings
waiting for a “la la la” that will never come

heaven is the negative
the splash is the photograph
as bubbles escape from the darkroom of
the old man's dreams

darkly, whitely
rosaries sinking to the bottom
of a dry ocean.