Pry the veined leaves from the
sea, their focus unmitigated by
cyan-tinged promises of subterfuge,
obfuscation, derailment and
the tender lament of
topiaries long forgotten and
cast into the shadows of an
ugly and slow descent.
Now is the moment of reflection,
now the sky can kiss the wet hand
in a subtle manner,
noted for its depth of congenial
gravity, its lack of emotive
harrumph a coiled seahorse’s tail,
a way to drift listless,
wrecked and comatose.