Circling the pulsing center of their universe
The fish are passing through sunlight and shadow.
Their existence is framed, circumscribed, and protected
By the carved marble rim of the fountain’s basin.
Do they fear or worship the hand that feeds them,
Removes their dead, repairs the stonework;
The hand that brought their ancestors here
From another world in a wooden bucket?
Can they see that the hand moves more slowly now,
That the bony fingers have grown stiff with age?
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