In buckets, a dozen by the port

The fish that stays suspended in water,
Opened in the middle like your coral powder box,
The fish onomatopoeic, resounds like the slap on your rounded buttock,
The fish ever emerging and dipping in, disappearing, like the splattering saliva
from the peaks of your excitement;
The fish when I rub it to the cheek,
Like your bony hands greased by caressing machines day long,
Is the so edible love letter that I write and eat away and bite and eat away,
Make another,
End up buying a fine one and in the honor of your ordinary, naive, not sufficiently emotive self,
My fantasies of you and the fish make the romance worthwhile.