Should I rise to the bait laid out long ago,
Make myself some fishy thing,
Mouth groping after a dangling worm
Left wet and limp in the world?

That I am not the catch then sought,
Not what should be shown struggling in net,
I’m well aware, as all those are
Who see me and think for a moment.

Yet somehow, still, I’ve been tickled out,
Drawn from under hanging banks
Into the sun and gasping air
By gentle hands, ineptly kissing.

I am not done. I speak not well
Forbidding mourning and weeping alike,
But I am brought to a good end,
Being laid where I now am.

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