When told they’d be made into fishers of men
did it not occur to a single one
that he’d be best off staying a fisher of fish,
reluctant to catch men with the lure of heaven
—an electric-blue dragonfly threaded
on an iron hook? That he’d no heart to land
shoals of men ashore to breathe the wrong air,
or have them kneel before a statue’s crimson tears
operated by a small pump in the vestry?
That he wanted fish to be fish, and not multiplied
ad infinitum by unearthliness;
wanted loaves to be loaves, salt waves to be waves
and not a secret floor the saviour walks on?
Just to sink when he sank and swim when he swam?