You would know what the crab in its claw-holds of gold weaves,
and I answer: Ocean will say it.
You ask what the lumnious bell of the tunicate awaits in the water: what
does it hope for?I tell you, it waits for the fullness of time, like yourself.
For whom does the alga Macrocytis extend its embraces?
Unriddle it, riddle it out, at a time, in a sea that I know.
And the narwhal's malevolent ivory? though you turn for my answer, I tell you
you stay for a stranger reply; how he suffered the killing harpoon.
Or you look, it may be, for the kingfisher's plumage, a pulsaton
of purest beginning in the tropical water.
Now, on the lucid device of the polyp you tangle
a new importunity, flailing it fine, to the bran:
you would sift the electrical matter that moves on the tiners of the void;
the stalactite's splintering armor that lengthens its crystal;
the barb of the anger fish, the singing extension
that weaves in the depths and is loosed on the waters?
I would answer you: Ocean will say it - the arc of its life-time
is vase as the sea-sand, flawless and numberless.
Between cluster and cluster, the blood and the vintage, time brightens
the flint in the petal , the beam in the jellyfish;
the braches are threshed in the skein of the coral
from the infinite pearl of the horn.
I am that net waiting emptily-out of range
of the onlooker, slain in the shadows,
fingers inured to a traingle, a timid
half-circle's dimensions comuted in orages.
Probing a starry infinitude,
I came, like yourselves,
through the mesh of my being, in the night, and awoke to
my nakeness-
all that was left of the cath-a fish in the noose of the wind.
