There are sharks, you just know it,
and you can eat them. Sharks, you say,

and they don’t blink in their fish tanks.
No need to cover carnage when prey

presses its face to the glass.
The fisherman’s wife wears heels

you hear coming, little elver.
She’ll tuck you tightly into defeat.

A child’s resistance to missing out,
your nightly epilepsy conjures

eels that spark around the doorframe,
crowing adventures that end,

too often, with busted everything:
eyes, teeth, and once a collarbone.