The Fish

The next table claps

when our order arrives:

whole fish baked in sea salt.

With the side

of a serving spoon,

the waiter cracks

the crust open.

Even its eyes

are shrouded in salt.

Each person gets a mouthful.

It’s the fleeing that

makes it tender.

I can’t be sure I’ve

ever loved anything this whole,

that I’ll ever be this close again

to something so expensive.

Hot Santa Ana wind mopes

across clay courts—

cigarette ash drops

from the balcony.

My view includes

the hotel loading dock:

a catering truck unloads

clean, bone-colored napkins.