A line of skewered sea horses
steaming to transparence
in a dented pan
faceted bodies the size of a finger
profiles tiny
as if carved with a pin
each death described
by the tight or loose curl of a tail
in the quilted jacket that marks a villager
a man tends them
smoke from his cigarette
swallowed by the quick blooms of steam
he turns the sticks
his thumbnail black and peeling
an injury from the other life
people passing don’t imagine he has
more and more these days
it slips even his mind
in the delicate tea-colored darkness
infused with neon
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