that's lit up in the world of fathoms-deep;
announcing its arrival with a swish
that makes the waters murmur in their sleep.
There always blooms that steady stream of snow
like plankton fallout in the sea of brain,
from which you snitch a thought not yes not no;
but Something from the world's incessant rain.
The ghostly fish that's lit up from within,
and bright enough to catch your eye that sweeps
the depths, or reaches, or the narrow place;
its luminescence gets beneath your skin,
and cheers you when it finds your tearstained face.
And if you mimic it or rise to match its pace,
then you become the company it keeps.
From Gravity’s Dream (2006). Kate Light died earlier this year. Her best poetry was in formal structures, like this one (except for the playfulness of using the title as the missing first line).