The sea is so much paparazzi today, a mirrorball
of undeclared interests. The more you appraise it
the less it has to say. The breeze moves
through accordions regardless
and urges chatter
in the bars, the unexpurgated streets
of narwhal tusks, leaky ships, new model islands.
Catfish whiskers tremble at the thought
of other lands, replete with tongues,
two-legged idols. Still for every mute fish
on the mortuary slab, there’s a parliament
of certified squirmers. An aniseed haze
encroaches on the port. The perfect face
bubbles up from the metro.