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Fitzgerald Marine Reserve, Half Moon Bay
What a name for the mouth inside
urchins—those spiny balls that turn
tidepools purple.
They dig the round smooth holes
they dwell in,
rasping
away at the rock with tiny
comb-like teeth
set in a deep-seated jaw
which, dissected, somehow reminded someone
of the philosopher's
light source, Aristotle's
illumination. Logic
works like that—
scraping away
a comfortable cave
within which to resist
the drumbeat of dream
the relentless
surge of the sea.