A curl within a curl
within a curl
ad infinitum.
A turquoise fractal
with salty skin
and a wicked tongue.
The golden ratio—
multiplying itself
in eternal swirls—
a pillow for Poseidon.
I stare out at the horizon,
blue walls of hydrogen
and oxygen molecules
holding hands
as I listen with elephant ears
to the peels
of white-cap backpacks
on these eternal sojourners.
The butterfly-effect is real.
Towers that bend
as my feet descend
to taste the ripe fruit
of exotic wings
is the passport
time forgot.