old mollusk fossils
enter the realm of dreams
suddenly the sky (of mind) splits open, hurling eyes
too spare, like poem anorexia
the idea of only one word in a line overandover.
instead i'll do it with stanzas, fibonacci my way
to something more spacious, curvaceous, generous.
in the trumpet of shell, the sea wind
blows this instrumentality to a new bell arch song
rippling along the tube cone curves, echoing outward.
if i knew there were swaying bellbottoms of bone
flaring forth in mermaid realms, that the honey tide would
turn to cement-castle clarities, now offered up on sand,
i would have asked the unicorns to bring home justice in their
tuba cases, or sea turtles to pattern nets from their shells.
instead, the ocean itself weaves seaweed into fibrile catchers
and the rain of nautilus, pearly pink vortices of song, avers the reign
of same size curlicues. Fibonacci is the name of the supple merfolk who
stretch every shell bell out with their meaty haunched tails.
They remind us to expand, every wider, just when we thought
we couldn't get any bigger, or our aspirations for tender empathy
love any more of this raucous planet. Their spiral shells remind us we
ARE that big, YES, and more, gripping our rainbow shine arcs as sails to deeper water.