Navel
Gazers
Turtles bask the log.
Hungry for the echo
of reptilian urges,
I prow up with silent J-strokes,
eavesdrop turtle talk.
It's all about shells.
Not bold carapaces,
mind you, scarred by fang and claw,
nor even olive husks
etched with the gentle geometry
of pond bottoms;
interiors, rather.
One by one
they duck inside to poke around,
nose their own furniture,
emerge with affect, necks extended,
nattering emotional décor and floor plans.
Opaque lids slide up,
down like limousine windows
at the grand opening
of a re-run. Meanwhile
my old skiff leaks
from a stray blast by the Winchester
slung across the gunnels.
Copyright © 2002 Mitchell Metz