What’s that coming up
from the dark water?
A corpse, a crab, a blue pearl?
The teacher says,
I spy only the blue pearl,
lustrous mystery rising.
The practical one
seizes on how the crab once seized
seizes back. Seizes on deniable pain.
The undertaker says,
my concern is the corpse.
Wash it clean. Swathe it. Bury it.
In this light, which is it?
Maybe it’s all a reflection
of that storm on the horizon,
and there’s nothing down there
threatening or promising anything,
just memory playing with shadow,
trying to claim its place
before the perfect storm
begins the work of drowning.
Dark Matter 
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