We say finite things and they’re over,
like that. How very similar things are
to their real forms. But  for us there
are no forums. We gave our baggage away
and watched the death-eyed, flack-mouthed fall
of finless sharks. Not figure-eights and fives, this
was the real thing. Finally over, wrong-fisted,
sawn-off and sort of muted hammerheads muzzle
toward that soft passage, enter-breast and the
auxiliary ladies committee, to clean up after
the maths.
Unbalanced equations sit on the edges
of the mind and take us underwater, with
slick cormorants dolphining, bludgeoning the
very thought. Peripatetic, we feel
so hopeless here and —
and there.

This entry was posted in morocco, poetry, sharks. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to sordomudo

  1. Anissa says:

    god, that image of the finless shark still haunts me….Why on earth did we watch that doco twice?!

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