by

East River Seahorse

Diotima, the East River seahorse,

Pulled by the high tide along,

Rides in the magnet-like draw

of the moon

Across the Sound, and rounds the fork,

Passes the lighthouse

And drifts back to Brighton,

Coney Island,

Up through the Bay,

The East River (really a tidal strait)

To the Harlem River’s mouth

To talk with that river

About who knows what

And who doesn’t

That man they mention

Who had a spine

That, like his ribs

And the rest of his skeleton,

Was made of shit

Afforded him

tremendous flexibility

He’d flush himself down toilets

And wind up in any bathroom

In the city

But what did he do with this?

Spread a great, radical ease?

Help heal the seas? the sick?

Slip into banks

And transfer accounts? Fix

The books or slit

The throats of the rich

In their mattresses

For what they’ve done

And what they haven’t?

Flood all of the police stations

Disabling them

Because, don’t forget:

In the very near future

When the livable planet is wrecked

And people ask: who stopped you

From saving what was left

The answer, in many respects,

Is: the police

But no

He’s only been pilfering baubles

and gobbles endless pies,

and sighs all night about his plight

The seahorse’s head’s the size of a mare’s

And she stares at the river’s mouth

Which, as the current pulls her off,

Appears to shrink to the size of a dot

What did we expect?

He’s just like the rest, it babbles,

Inaudibly,

for now.