Did everyone see the poem by Billy Collins in the New York Times Magazine? It’s here if you missed it, which you might easily have done, since it appears on the Food page. Accompanied by a recipe, no less.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
Her poem is long. Too long, the critic Clive James once wrote, cantankerously: “in the reader’s mind the fish is croaking while she runs the micrometer over it, making nonsense of the poem’s punch line”:
And I let the fish go.
“Whereupon,” adds James, “muttering ‘Thanks for nothing, lady,’ with its dying gasp, it undoubtedly sank like a plummet.”