The horizon blurs
any distinction
between sea and sky.
Pulsating
in long undulations,
in long ululations,
I am at sea,
no rocks
to crash against.
Like pyroclastic flows
cascading down
a ridge line,
my shell cracks,
hesitates,
then shatters.
Something glistens,
for a moment,
in the sea swell.
Which fragment is mine?
Which some other
I’ve taken on?
this chrysalis
will not break;
the wren’s egg’s intact.
I am still,
and cannot breath;
one must stay silent.
(February 25, 2017)
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