THE FLIGHT OF THE STARFISH
You don´t smell the stink of rotting algae underfoot
this reeking morass bleeding dull red desperation
in wine rust screams on the sharp sand
miasma of decay and desiccation
on this winter day with a cold too cold to feel
a perfect day and place for ending.
I pick you up. I hold you in my hand.
Could you still be rescued from this rancid
uselessness?
Should I take you home and put you on a shelf?
A rigid yet resplendent souvenir?
Countless bubbles race across your thorny skin
foaming, glistening in a dance of effervescence
blisters bursting in a symphony of light
prelude to the dark cascade of death.
From your spiny crust I pick
shreds of still fresh algae, sea-green and bloody
red
laced with shards of fish net, silent testament
to a close escape.
But do I feel a tiny twitch, a quiver in your little
feet?
Your silent protest against withering awareness?
I hurl you.
You spin on an unseen axis on your flight back to
the sea.
With arms outstretched I spin in imitation
until I tumble in the dizziness,
then rise and run
beyond decaying fetidness
embracing vertigo.
I am the sea. I am the wind. I am life.