COELACANTH.

No gods, no masters, not even

the dusking moon and her turning

tide-time -

to swim a day as coelacanth,

scale-mail untouched by change

in brine.

To pass through the scorching dredge

of great eyes that sear celestial

deeps - 

to be found unchanged and whole,

nothing but heart - a Parthian ride,

no real retreat.

No impossible goal, no dinosaur act,

a simple fish that got it right; Lazarus

taxon, arise and swim - 

Is it the hollow spine, the uncouth taste,

or the fat of brain that wore the 

paradigms thin?

If I - dead eyes and silver stars,

wolf-paddling against the charging

depth of mind - 

could swim a day as coelacanth,

I might learn at last to understand

how common creatures try.

I wrote this very early in 2012.