The world is my turtle, or I am.
Do I slip out from coral to crush it,
both skulls recoiling?
Or swoop to reef and mother-of-pearl
as the world hangs in nothing?
Will I tangle in trawlers, smother
in anchors, seaweed?
Perhaps I’ll crack, let them harvest
my nested eggs
and display me
Or make me to soup,
flick ash in my back, or might I
cradle in shell, so green
I can’t see the world?
Or shall I wait until ripened,
swim out, to find
the world is now coral, or I am?
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