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sea urchin :: j. allyn rosser

by on December 15, 2015

When the mind fumbles, reaching feebly
back and back with its long black needles
waving like one too few or far too many
mutely clacking, poison-tipped antennae
at a wavery something in the past
it cannot now grasp,
lurching vaguely along the ocean floor,
flailing, in a near-despair so pure,
despair of ever again coming across—
no matter how it turn and toss
and turn—that perfect, pink anemone
that lit once up the waste of sea

like muted lightning brightening all

and when distracted by present demands
of now too easily stirred-up sand,
and buffeted by this bad tiding or
that conventional big fish gliding
regally by; when failing at last to find
what it almost once had, the mind,
about to give up on stealth and chance,
has half a heart to pounce
on the first pretty bit of coral
and settle for a self-inflicted epidural,
deadening desire. But never mind.
That’s not how it’s designed.


From → poems

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