Sea Snail
would go quickly
in any market. Spiral
house, ancient symbol
of the sun or more
like a galaxy.
There’s the mathematical
seashell surface—
calculus of rotation
and radii—and then
there’s the seen surface,
iridescent home, flaked
rainbow shades of sea glass,
itinerant ocean disco,
motor home for one.
The sea snail slithers
over water-smoothed
stones for the next meal,
or maybe a mate.
What else is there
but watchful predators
around every coral
nook, the pulse of water,
and algae blooming
inside the sea’s night?
I heard the ocean
in a spiral shell
that washed up on our sand.
In it the rumors
of larger fish swirled—
engines of shark fins
sliced wave after wave,
and another tone, one
I hadn’t heard before,
an operatic baritone—
and in the center
of that sound was the sea’s
voice itself
intoning its primal
longing to meet
another planetary shore.