Insofar
       

                        as the pieces move
over some period of time,
insofar as quartz splits, and the moon half appears
to padlock the tide, so long as wet sand is skirted
by itching mist and flies, what goes before
grows wildly antecedent. Flecks
of volcanic glass, freshening grains
of skeleton and shell. There is no blood,
but a water vascular system
straining oceans through a sieve, a five-point,
radial symmetry, eyes at the end of their arms,
no color-detecting cones, no lenses
to focus light. Clouds have built
their shadows in the troughs. Whoever sees
the shining detours of the stars
sees them pose and move the question
back to sea: what is mine
to keep, or miss?
I know a starfish is not a fish.

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Copyright © 2021 Sarah Gridley All rights reserved
from Insofar
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission