Tetrapod

What have I needed to exclude should seem ready to rise nude
From its clothing, and contend with gravity. The fins flicked instead.
In this work all is process, which the fusions should make more powerful;
instead, they are the only parts that fossilize. All that is down-sloping, piscine

Reflect the accidents of survival, of painting. Successive new moons instead

Lapped the standing water—only to reveal low-water marks, the sunken torches—

And utter friability of sentimental choices. Witness a slow emergence from the piscine
How the sound catches, and lends an inner ear to the keen of potential mates

All those self-catering breaks, of getting a leg up, and relighting a nuptial torch
Smuggling in the idea is akin to that first push-up to exploit the oxygen, like an angry
Swimmer—the trial of flexing our proto-limbs amounts to urban attachments, an intimate
Footing with those we slander. Those indwelling ear bones beyond the skull’s trapdoor

What echo of actions, and eternal tide-stranded replies—It debuted with half of the angry
Modern values—the tracks are dated but undigitalized. All that is left is the powerful
Pectoral girdle panting to keep the head up. Even these questions have migrated
to the mouth, now fit for neither water nor necklaces, swarming up poolside and nude.