Mollusks are their own mathematicians.
Blind in the deep they discover whorled forms,
yet they’ve no use for metaphysicians.
Men die for purposes and drown in norms.
The lowly mollusk echoes galaxies
and cares not a wit. His shell bounds his world.
He lacks light for larger intricacies,
bothers not how stars through heavens are hurled.
I culled today a shell from dreamy sea.
It made a point and seemed to wear a map.
With lines of green latitude, precisely,
it was ruled. I disturbed it from its nap.
Now for the deed there is no remedy.
We both lie lost in stranger’s melody.