If notions of oceans acidify our eggs,
either poaching undone or reprimandingly,
we will cast out the fish that swam with legs
in a standing too soon, correspondingly
do we dive into deeps: may I be guiltiest of all
in those parchments’ relief in a burning cerebrum.
Yet do we preach, and yet still do we scorn
the relief of the era, the beheading in turn
of a fish gone to sleep,
a beast overrun;
a man comes to right,
the Scythian made undone.