Eel Poem by Leslie Philibert
Eel
Sleeping under waves
with open eyes as night
as sand as black, eaters
of dirt and horse-brain,
elvers play in foul brine.
First a glass, then pimped
with grease they have
blood like hot acid,
eyes as cold as Canada.
Do they come with the tide?
Are they happy in the guts of water?
No, they are lidless and empty,
hidden in a depth under shadows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/27/2026 11:00:04 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
