We dive-bombed the fish market,
offered to trade sexual favors
for pork cutlets. Acted surprised
when told pork is not a fish: “have we
done Lent wrong all this time?” We hunted
wild geese in clock towers, random odors
in dusty college hallways. Never found
the source of that pomegranate scent
that pervaded History, 2nd floor.
There is never enough dust in the world
to allow you to cling like a window-film,
so we went our separate ways. You masqueraded
as the failed logo for a sports team perennially
in last place; I searched, forever and ever, amen,
for the last living conger eel in Choctaw, Michigan.