25

Fish, the strangest of God's
Prodigies—wall-eyed hunks
Of surging white flesh, odd
Pilgrims, piloted by a small chunk
Of grey crawling with sparks;
Like a cold bird dropping
Or a bone of the inner ear,
But full of blood, wet, throbbing.
They hove out of the corridors of
Far water—of one commanding thought,
If the stream of fluid energy
That permeates their gills, their pores,
Their tinfoil eyes and plastic bones
Could be called a thought.
It is the name of the sea,
An idea of flesh that water explores.
Fish-form is a cast that fluid hones
Through dark reaches, architect.