Before our day, what had the sawfish seen—
His own snout's toothy, prehistoric blade?
His own tank's sun and shade? . . .
Flat white lips of a ghost or libertine
Open and shut, as do the strenuous gills
Which even admit light. Bored in mid-swim,
He sees you—and a sunbeam fills
That frightful mouth. Now if I speak for him
A fellow captive, lips that kissed and told
Declare me—well, almost—
Not of this world, transparently a ghost
Into whom still the bright shaft glides. One old
Disproven saw sinks out of mind;
Love's but a dream and only death is kind.
First published in James Merrill: Collected Poems, ed J. D. McClatchy and Stephen Yenser. (NY: Knopf, 2001): 416-17.