Abalone, starfish, Rain –
I suppose I will permit them into the waves.
Before concrete arteries, oceans substituted in one large jar, the preserved animals
now kept under microscopes decayed
smelling like pickles and chlorophyll.
From the backyard of Western Biological,
bookcases store vegetables in filing cabinets
under the Pacific saliva.
As many as 100 encyclopedias attempt to
combine and separate
worms, urchins, nudibranchs,
to make a Picasso into a sensical Dali,
but we all know boxes don’t make sense
in a fluid body.
Cell walls are permeable,
rooms you can enter, float to and fro
exchange energy that is needed. Whenever you please.
Sit on a bench and ponder how the ocean spray
covers barnacles, seals, and humans
when dissection rips and fragments lives
“telling them very profound words to understand.”
Salty saliva drips from our eyes and their slippery pores.
It stings and it heals.