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THE FISH How they appear: tunneled vision in a brackish world. But they weave through it, ambient, loose as the drops that brush their skin, slick colony of mists. Or do not weave. These snaking vines, these luminous passersby who quiver and blink in strange upstagings don't form obstructions to a path, but mark details in an intimate landscape, one that, though vast, in practice is always narrowed ... Minutiae abound, things small as the tip of an eyelash, which the fish might gulp, ...