(or what does it mean to process the world through poetry?)
Not the brain directing traffic
(even as amorphous mass). Just bivalves
just opened, their minute antennae reaching out
the Blue. Trust, beyond their variegated halves
moved to take-in whatever passes by.
in good time~ edgy electric, spiny sweet succulent
or bad~ passing shadow, memories, stinging cells
that may slam them shut.
No matter. “Water
never navigates the thermocline
the same twice.” Soothes vertical. And hunger
always erasing, invites, opens
the animal again in hope.
for something good