Between mirrors, a fish-market.
Every reflection a mouth peddled
from a hook. Each mouth so wide,
so silent. All that thrashing after a single stab.
Every time I eat I can taste the raw inside
of my cheek. First blood after first blood.
Fish cannot close their eyes. I suppose this is why
I know so many things– the ceiling’s every scratch,
the roof’s every scale. No matter how many roofs we build
the sky will still throw its blind knives.
Fear a kind of weather.
Every day a new way to fog the glass.