~ Ocypode quadrata
Salt freckling the air, signature
of the decomposing under every
chassis that wheels across the sand.
It doesn’t care if the light is translucent
on skin, it doesn’t want to hear
the constant echo of I, I, I
on every wind stream. Past the strandline,
litter swept in by a recent storm, among which
scavenger birds conduct sweeping investigations.
Blue flesh, ammonite of lyrical spirals—
I can’t help it if I sway, dizzy
in the labyrinth. Every hull I pick up
on the beach is clear warning,
though when I tilt my head the sky
still froths with what refuses
to be deleted. So many forms
from which to choose: fine fuzz, pale
thread, needle spinning on the surface.
Cracked carapace, heft of a bone left to dry; ashes
like bits of language, left in the pan after the fire.
In response to Via Negativa: Isolationist.