Chronos
You left no space untouched, uneaten.
Sliding the knife like a zipper from anus
to the base of the jaws, you opened
the fish, you went in headfirst, biting
eggs from their bed. It’s caviar, you said,
it’s gravy. What a stroke of luck, what wild
fortune, O string of globes found in the folds.
You went in and your flannel was silver
with scales, and when you arose the fish
was upon your shoulders, the hybrid father
of the riddle, waving the thin knife,
you worked the hinge of the jaw
pretending to offer of yourself: Eat me,
the fish says, or I you. The fish in pursuit,
its callused hands outstretched, bringing
the threatening roe to my mouth: eat, eat,
the rank ocean bursts on my tongue. It only feels
like a choice, I tell myself, tightening your watch
on my wrist, looking in the glass: I am
wearing your head, watching my hands
zipping up your jacket. When I scattered
sand of your flesh, the sea was gone
a moment, a million years. 
Chronos
Keats, Climbing
Sarcophagus