Contortionist

in the blackest recesses of Bistro Malatesta entre les heures du quatre à cinq (forgoing his liaison with Odette for the third time in as many days) Prudhomme observes a snailfish undulating round the hat stand’s spine, the stalagmites of candles (its sad, small eyes, its cryptic lack of scales) wants to cleave to it wants to shake the dipsomaniac in the corner, hiss Ay caramba! Have you seen it? Here on the Rue Mouffetard — so far from deep-sea canyons, so far from home? considers eating it flavored with rosemary, flavored with dill whiskery thing sees it, loses it in Gauloise furls, catches it again, its curl/uncurl progression along a velveteen banquette it stirs him — its decision in oblivion to be a thing of  light and so gelatinous thinks of turtles nibbled at by surgeonfish wonders if perhaps he’s lost his grip, and if  he has, likes it