There was a cod in the fish store
following me the way eyes
of great paintings follow you through museums.
They wrapped him up for me.
I got lost on the way home
whispering through the paper to my loaded cod.
Strangers I passed were convinced
he was a loaf of bread.
Where are we?
He talked quite naturally given
his condition. Where are we?
You were saying just now.
The dark souls
of all the fish I've eaten
are European, black as wallets.
Their street goes on forever, shiny with oil.