Wednesday, 22 August 2012

A Whelk, Perhaps

I shall draw myself further in,
safe in these whorls. No feelers
feeling. No fronds out-turned.
A whelk, perhaps. Invertebrate.
Safe in myself with my eyes closed,
head drawn in, curved to the
contours of this calcification.
No man is an island, entire of himself.
But I can eke out the neck of
this peninsula. I can huddle like rock,
my spine an archipelago, undiscovered.
I can stay like a soft thing, washed
by waves, moved by eternal currents,
but always held. Always safe
in Fibonacci’s constant. Curved in,
and blind, and alive in my mind.

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