My daughter’s chubby starfish hands stretch for the darkmirrored river ("I want it—) fingers slicing the lemon pie moon (—but I can’t reach!") dissolving into winking fishscale ripples, a handful of mud and wails. I want the image of me reflected in her eyes, but I can’t reach it. I want to cast a net for the ephemeral image, haul it in dripping and cratered simply for the gesture of the thing: a miracle to burden a bathtub or to catch careless toes in hallway corners. I want to cast a net for that image, feel it tense under a churning weight, watch it broach the foaming surface in a gleaming ball of thoughts like fish. Hold one: slippery-cool, a dense thrashing crescent silversided in the crease of your palm. See your face for an instant through its unblinking eye then let it disappear in a spray of droplets simply for the gesture of the thing, simply for the joy of the impractical gift.