I’m just a gypsy barnacle,
searching for a rock
to lie on, to die on,
as the water laps my days.
Encrusted on this old routine,
I spend my time alone and
thinking, "suction…suction."
How soon the moment comes
for me to loosen and get battered
is just another secret of the sun.
How warm this shell has been,
how cold the sea.