Ascidian, you who siphons

canticle from salt and fluid:

a squirt by any other name.


We call you sea tulip

for the red your head

gives to the waves.


Out there in cluster 

you clung to seagrass 

and reef, filtering to feed.


How many larvae 

have you spawned
for the rip?


How many have struggled

to find safe passage

in this aqua engine’s grip?


Like those lost, 

you too:



Beneath comb, bloom 

as artefact, a hushed tone 

drying into day.


The beach is a vase and you 

cannot slake in the arms 

of solar warming stem: decay.