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From wire and lures, fine
Fish lie spread-eagled on the shore.
Tails flapping so far as to snap, they
Do not, thank God, scream as we behead them.
The translucency of their flesh and
The flimsiness in their bones snare
My fingers, snag my eyes to their
Truncated eyes, and picky waving fins.
Mindless when whole, how
Philosophic they wax when under the blade:
They speak and genuflect, dividing
With the groanless tread of Socrates,
And split into scales and strophes,
Twitching automatically, all the gaily colored tubing scraped
From their shiny bowels,
Cleaned fresh of all their necessaries,
Their sleek shapes quartered into simplest geometry.
The fecundity of fish allows
A drop of absolution for their eloquence.
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