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The carp-spawn do not die quietly,
no, they thrash and moan and shake,
churning buttery water, building foam-caps
like dirty icebergs.

Still the boy pours,
he relished the future boasts but
they no longer seem so interesting or
so funny.

Too late he throws aside the bucket of lye,
too late - he is condemned to house
the little carp
in his bloodstream.

At night his bed emptier than before,
his veins and arteries fuller,
bulging with
  all the lost fish
who cannot find their kin
in those narrow warrens.

His capillaries ache with tears
and the boy, too, cries

private, soapy tears.