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When I was young there were never enough.
They would breach the taut surface
in a spray of surprise.
I could write a verse novel,
tattoo a scallop around my navel.
Now they branch through time's desert,
sleek jets ascending with speed.
I might start a radio station,
found my own small nation.
Rich and red, they bleed through fact,
gun my mind. One grows long and trails the hours,
a dropped net surfing my wake.
When, when, when, they sing,
these small alarms left ringing.
The ones left behind bob after dark,
phosphoresce on the curl of waves.
Insidious fireworks, they launch
and launch. A never land, a perennial spring.
After all, this is a sea fable
and I am a feather on a singing serpent.

      — Rachel Dacus