Weary wounds down the sides of the front of my torso raw from my continually cutting you out of my lungs: I had made a bold play of it once; now I stare — take slow gapes of resignation. The fishhooks I withdrew — cut each one in half with my knife — they keep coming; there are so many now. I look up to the sky filtered through the surface of the water; who knows, maybe, of a sudden: Yank.