Each morning, fingers come
to plumb my brim, release miasmal grease
that quavers off- loosening bow of viscid swill
like a mini oil spill
fronting every what-not way,
eelier than the Regenbogen, but as colorful;
a rain of ruby-red daphnia and bloodworms, followed by;
it fills my atmosphere like stringy hails-
my billows boil, my people swarm
in momentary frenzy
yet, have no alarm-
my waters will soon sleep, the fish retreat
vanish into the manifold corners of things.
And there's the brain-
at least, I call it that;
at least it's creased like one
with the requisite sulci and gyri
sitting a-squat the stream.
It musn't know it's actually a coral
it wouldn't be good for its ego, at all,
it wouldn't be good for its self-esteem,
sitting unbudging and bright like a pearl or a ping-pong ball.
'Round its borders graze spidery things
with eyes on stalks, angular and clear-
high-steppers, they've been here awhile
yet even I don't know their names-
you might miss them, if you blink
tip-tip-toeing through the drink.