In Brine, Beneath Delos,
Poseydon praised each mackerel with
A silvery line across mid-body; across
Mid-body and under, draped, a prism
Sheen or spleen of mother-of-pearl
And thin skin. Across the counter, sprawled,
On ice in all its coldness, a mackerel
Limp, its ghost-eyes pierced into skull
Like pearls, its head a part of its body
Under Mackerel Sky, a bevy of dead mackerel
Shells placed as decorum on Day's blue walls.
In Delos, a fisherman, in a Pleyt, spotted
A Horse entering the sea and, by it,
Getting swallowed. In Brine, the Horse
Transforms and turns into Poseydon.
In Brine, in rows, steams of uncoloured
Fish, till he arcs in a downhill motion
His spear and turns - clad in damask-
Each fish into a cross between Salmon
And Pirayah, names them Brinelos.