great strangeness still may come, even for you

I waited though wanting nothing, 

then waited longer. 

 

As if by that I might 

become again 

the carved and painted lure—

 

Its two iridescent eyes that stay always open, 

its stippled gold sides, deep orange back, 

red threads attached at the gills. 

 

I hummed with its three-pronged shine 

of fish who are sweet and fat to the birds above them. 

 

I hummed with its three injured notes to the fish below. 

 

To all the blue-winged, handless distances 

and all my blue-finned, handless lives, 

I hummed 

in borrowed Swedish and the iron-hiding slip of gleam—

 

The great strangeness still may come, even for you. 

 

[Jane Hirshfield {1953- } 'Lure', from Ledger]