sharkskin is made of denticles, like thousands of tiny teeth

i spackled the top of your sternum with gesso,
explaining, "these freckles are fading." impartial,
you kept watching shark week: the glint of predatory
teeth, the ominous concerto. torpid blue light
dribbled over your t-shirt's heave and collapse.
i detailed each fleck with blood-orange
oil, imagining how, through your pulfrich
glasses, melanin might rise in
melonballs. a floating matrix of violet, a
sniggler's trade map of the bejeweled abyssal
deep. i put the paints away while, in real life, you
reached to adjust the volume on the tv. under my
breastbone, a spinefish was ballooning, quietly.