This is the slip, the curl, of what remains
when poets deign to explain
the interconnectivity of things,
this gossamer fish that sings
of ancient sirens and mermaids combing
their hair in the soft billowy air.
But, O my soul, should I let go this toil
for more productive soil,
slow moving as I am from womb to tomb
within these living rooms,
my voice growing thin, my own skin turning
as transparent as my cares.