A sip, a sup, another break, and then
Another chance for me to moan and vent.
Each bleak complaint like manna, heaven-sent
For Fish to dine upon. Another ten
Techniques of mine. I still remember when
Each one was learnt. A knowledge that I'd meant
To use but then, encumbered still, but spent
Of pent-up rage, had put away again.
"This tastes of salt," said Fish, "and this, of sky;
"This one of lead, this one of gravity.
"Yet all taste of the same destructive need,
"A need that needs no reason, never 'why',
"But only 'how' and 'where' and 'when'. A tree
"Of plenty born from meagre, toxic seed."
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