You slip like a fish
silver-darting in that circular cyclone of
If I touched you, I think you would peel like scales
(green and grey), and they would grow into a mountain under my shaking fingers.
I would climb you, sticking my pinky between your papery fish-bones,
and pry my way up and up toward your black, outward-fixed eye.
With my shell-knife, I would scoop out your pupil and put it in my pocket,
to later mix into soup, hot and watery—
which I would sip, very slowly.