He spends the afternoon Feeding the fishes – long, Snake like, breadcrumbs.

The fragrance of ovens Is left on his fingers and The taste of wheat

Becomes flesh of his tongue. Which he arches back, making Ineffectual noises to keep from

Drowning in the bile rising steadily, A Noah’s deluge of squirming ghosts, Silvery innards, bloody gills, dead eyes.

…

And so an afternoon has passed, Hunched over a gasping mouth, Scattering crumbs, fistfuls, as time Turns on inconspicuous gases in These chambers, these autumn days.