[Every Monday (until I run out of them), I’m posting a poem of mine that has fallen out from the submission process for some reason. In most cases, it will be one where I’ve received no response to my submission for at well over a year or more. Maybe the magazine I submitted them to has folded, the submission was lost in the post, or whatever. So, these poems can be seen as lost, orphans, of uncertain status, or something like that.]
Now the sea horses are still, poised,
ornate like delicate jewellery.
What that means, I do not know.
We move on, in shoals, through
the depths of dark shadows
between the islands of lit tanks.
The ritual returns, it begins.
The search through rocks, weeds,
and the confirmation by label,
the feeling of knowledge gained.
A worthy satisfied feeling, well-fed
by solid but digestible fact,
of time productively spent,
of edification and improvement.
A sense of the world, as somehow
slightly less out there, distant,
unknowable. Now it doesn't seen so far
out of reach by desperate, yearning hands.
But what do we really know?
A few names, forms and facts.
A handful of distinguishing marks
separating this one shoal of fish
from all the others swimming past.