by Edward Johnson.
A buzzing has ensued,
a harbinger, a glitchy modem,
the air thickened by gossip.
The drydock is encrusted in bivalves
so of course there are those among us
who suspect we’re being listened to.
A skiff riffles into the silvery
suture where sea meets sky.
The data-mining mollusks quiver –
desalinated, globular, athrob,
one ear to the world, the other
relaying our secrets God knows where.
Tulips have commenced their ablutions
a cataclysm of pollination and bloom,
a catechism of doomed renewal.
They wave their fleeting freak flag
knowing full well they will die soon
and be boot-heeled back to nothing.
An egg-shaped moon lifts above the juniper,
at least that thing is organic we muse
as it winks and whispers, “hello hatchlings.”