Flask


So much to be sad about. But I don’t want to stop trying
Then I see they are formed to finer, finer veins

the dragonfly wings. Inset with silver sequins
they shimmer in the sunlit sea, tiny jewels aloft

skirting above the froth until an armoured ancient frame
bluer than Mad Dog Skullcap, appears blazing in the heat

like weathered bronze; a woman stands first. Her skirt
a loose red sail that flaps about wild. It happens

that we have a Close Encounter. As he surfaces the sea brindles
bright green. I may send emails for the whales’ cause. Perhaps

they would be touched if they heard of the humpback whale
that buzzed then rubbed its barnacles off on the bow

leaving a trail of blood; as I seek through my finer, finer veins
the Baleens' Song, the fossils long forgotten and tone-deaf channels

his shallow shadow only dances as it alters the quiet water.
Perhaps he is attracted to the scintillating dragonfly, who

clear of the whale's salt spray yet touching with spindle limbs
skims the titan's head, navigating us through an epoch beautiful.