The mystery of the catfish
Is its sweetness,
The gorgeous meat of it
Fed on the silt
And bitterness a loner clings to
At the bottom.
In its own element
It’s close to weightless,
A dark self
Respecting the sacrament of night.
Who else acknowledges
Solitude so obligingly,
Its filth a contradictory savor.
See how it sways
In the water’s music,
Washes its length in song,
In slow adagios,
All that pale flesh
Pressed against a lute of bones.