How fine it is to mutiny
against my tired mind—

say self, you are through,
to smash into a mirrorball

of echoes all scaled
in dizzying Nordic blue

feel the universe tilt
and infinitely rebuild

to flicker
like a skerrick of spindle silver

needle-quick,
and never be held—

this is the freedom
of the unilluminated world

where corals pulse
in the dark like deathstars, unmoved,

and leaflets of seagrass
witter in the fracas and fray

of elfin shrimp
and the forays of smolts and eels,

and I can forever surf
not between places but selves,

scavenging the ultramarine layers
for other lures, other lives.

Sarah Holland-Batt