‘Even I, Lucas, have heard the legend of a man-fish.’ But what did they tell you, Lucas? Out of the murk and mystery – was I all pleats and webbing, spats and pipes, my wet heart thrashing for lovely Julia Adams? I live here all alone. The water looks like screens look after everyone’s gone home. Don’t you know me, Lucas? Don’t you recognise this place? That flarestick I means nothing here, your beacon name’s a dud. Who’s this who walks the bank? And who could say what backlit tricks the mirror plays with lights and cameras muffled for the night? The Amazon chugs turpid gold and greens through California’s glitz – smiles, tinsel, yesses, fizz – the extras stick their tacky skin to plastic slats of loungers. Oh Julie, Rita, Kay – each night, in phosphorene, you’ve loved the lot – hot, pliant, all lit up like slot machines. Lucas, when they named you, did they say what draglines ran below? What languid things resisted in the current? Oh Lucas, did they say that each man has his double in the dark? And when I climbed aboard, what else was struggling, upwards, gagging on the light?