They lie in parallel rows,



on ice, head to tail,



each a foot of luminosity







barred with black bands,



which divide the scales’



radiant sections







like seams of lead



in a Tiffany window.



Iridescent, watery







prismatics: think abalone,



the wildly rainbowed



mirror of a soapbubble sphere,







think sun on gasoline.



Splendor, and splendor,



and not a one in any way







distinguished from the other



—nothing about them



of individuality. Instead







they’re all exact expressions



of the one soul,



each a perfect fulfilment







of heaven’s template,



mackerel essence. As if,



after a lifetime arriving







at this enameling, the jeweler’s



made uncountable examples,



each as intricate







in its oily fabulation



as the one before



Suppose we could iridesce,







like these, and lose ourselves



entirely in the universe



of shimmer—would you want







to be yourself only,



unduplicatable, doomed



to be lost? They’d prefer,







plainly, to be flashing participants,



multitudinous. Even now



they seem to be bolting







forward, heedless of stasis.



They don’t care they’re dead



and nearly frozen,







just as, presumably,



they didn’t care that they were living:



all, all for all,







the rainbowed school



and its acres of brilliant classrooms,



in which no verb is singular,







or every one is. How happy they seem,



even on ice, to be together, selfless,



which is the price of gleaming.





