flat.fish.flesh

The stuff that I spat out at height of night
would better be well felt than understood.
Mad skin does not check what it tells the light
to mask it from the world beneath a hood

but twitches to the rhythm of some deep
and unfrequented parlour of the shoals.
Enticing us with presents we can’t keep,
it bursts and blushes out in feeling coals.

Not noticing how I perceive your bones.
These darkly hidden blues contain its tones.