| The fishermen sleep. They are wrapped around the fish and they are naked. Scales have rubbed, have smeared phosphorescence into their dark skin. In the sunlight they seem to be surfacing from some other place, or sinking into it. The fish gasp in their arms. Their eyes become pearls. The fishermen smile. Even in their sleep they are fishing. The muscles of their arms shape with weight. Shadows green as the sunlight rubs against the windows of the shack. They are naked and warm, greenly pearlescent, surfacing and sinking. Sleeping. The fish die in their arms. Their eyes are pearls. The fishermen sleep. |
