a mighty fish, laid out on newspaper,
a table of wood in a cottage in
normandy. quite still, quite warm - the air is
knitting woollen socks. you can touch him or
not, his silvery scales like endless rows
of notes in a cool symphony. his head
is off, if it weren't he could, assuming of course
that fish can read, peruse
what's printed above his dorsal fin
and giving him the prompt: "what are these people up to?"
the light withdraws discreetly, the paper
absorbs the oceans drop by drop.
au fond de l'image the thunderous atlantic thrashes
the latest missing persons ads onto the beach.

Translation: Georgina Paul