Wee fish, fins faltering,
lost in your bowl.
Clearly, sick of dying.
Spells of craze;
frantic, dizzy swimming
followed by listless daze.
Weak gasping, night and day,
barely living in the grave
gargle of your own decay.
Your rotting scales
disintegrating flesh
and morbid time lapses.
Pauvre Guillaume.
We’ll have no hand
in your last twitch, your end.
The lurching swell and fall
of your tiny lungs and soul
is a breathless secret told
between a fish and its God.
Ainsi soit-il. Amen.