Contortionist

in the blackest recesses of Bistro Malatesta entre les heures du quatre à cinq

(forgoing his liaison with Odette for the third time in as many days) Prudhomme

observes a snailfish

undulating round the hat stand’s spine, the stalagmites of candles (its sad, small

eyes, its cryptic lack of scales)

wants to cleave to it

wants to shake the dipsomaniac in the corner, hiss Ay caramba! Have you seen it?

Here on the Rue Mouffetard — so far from deep-sea canyons, so far from home?

considers eating it flavored with rosemary, flavored with dill

whiskery thing

sees it, loses it in Gauloise furls, catches it again, its curl/uncurl progression along a

velveteen banquette

it stirs him — its decision in oblivion to be a thing of  light and so gelatinous

thinks of turtles nibbled at by surgeonfish

wonders if perhaps he’s lost his grip, and if  he has,

likes it