If each couplet should represent a single pearl, are these strung beads at my throat words disguised as pearls? The hooked fish looks up at them with recognition as his eyes fade to the opacity of pearls.
The trees distract my attention and remember me as a passing, as do the open windows and doors, and a flashing bicyclist and a line of schoolkids on a rope between their tenders. I move uneasily across a bridge, my hair gusting. I’ve forgotten my little hat with the brim so I fret a little.
. . . when the Rapture comes, they will be taken up only halfway: forever suspended in the middle of the clouds as the checkerboard earth and the vast blank oceans revolve beneath, as cryptic patterns left by intercontinental jets slowly fade away against the blue-black dome above.