The way to see the invisible salmon is to cook it at once,
on lowered heat, in a cast-iron pan glossy with the fat

of earlier salmon that cannot be seen. When the salmon is ready
it is cerise. This is supper, and also supposition—

no-one has caught the invisible salmon but the invisible
bear, nine hundred pounds of desire, who hibernates

in the double bed. The bear is not an idea. Since when
was desire a good idea? The bear is a Kodiak instance, stolen

from the time stream that slips around the airfoil
of the present, an aerodynamic hump in the double bed, scion

of a long-crested line of airborne bears, who fishes
and whoops asleep, invisible paw dangling over a colander

full of water, rife with coho, sockeye, Chinook, chum,
swirling and transparent as the night is at night time.