Evaporating Villanelle for Algae Bloom
We all have secrets we would like to keep
to ourselves. Sure, the sea is no different.
The whole grave mass of it could cover up
oil spills, plastics. But they spike into shape,
those hourglass whorls to see in the distance.
We all have secrets we would like to keep
but still resuscitate. Regret’s lewd,
a sour bite that shows up for tea;
the whole grave mass of it could
foul the interstitial brood
with its vast swirl, its Milky Way.
We all have secrets we would
label scarlet tide or sea snot—
endless whirl of dishonor—
the whole grave mass of it
we fail to save
with mere skimmers,
this whole grave
we all have.
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