On his thirtieth birthday he left the party and the corner bar packed with bodies warm and humid, smelling like wet salt on the rim of a glass, the rim of a lip unkissed for months- Out on the sidewalk-seeking air- the hot breath of rain radiates and in the window next door plump fish swim in tiny circles illuminated by florescent lights twenty-four hours a day. Their small mouths also work in circles, saying nothing. Gold-mottled mutes enjoying the eternity of daylight. The sun never sets. They do not rest. These fish do not know darkness.
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Wilson Diehl is a poet and essayist from the lovely and underrated state of Iowa. She has an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Iowa and a cat named Turtle from the Madison, Wisconsin Humane Society.