A Glassful of Seagrass
(The water feigns escape)
Bottle green, a tribune
As we wash, tree-tops are slipping into holes
Reversal. An act of flipping. The sophistry of folds — pivots of squeaky doors
Taabeer. Snag in a dream. Floating segments of hues. Is and isn’t another layer of skim. Is and isn’t in drowse. Is and isn’t in dismissal. Is and isn’t combed seagrass.
It calls like a fire-beetle settled on a dormant ocean. I jump forward like a gurgle.