it must have seemed like a good idea at the time: to wriggle up from moon-swung deeps, from slime climb onto rock, grow legs — six? four? Two — and reach for fat forms shimmering in air — the ones that hung, the ones that ran — grasp them with initiate fingers chase them down with sharpened stone... and then: to stay a while and watch the seeds come up, plant a family — who doesn't love a gardener? — and not be forever trekking after food with blood in it or forever hauling the proliferating tools and toys from place to unplumbed place... and then: to put it all on wheels and haul it anyway when seasons changed and brought nostalgia — for the whiff of salt, of fertile mud — crawl with traffic on the one-way road — somewhat like turtles hardwired for return — to claim a seaward facing porch or strip of sand, and watch protected by umbrellas lotion, costly UV treated glasses, the unencumbered porpoises cavort right through the wall of our first, lost home.
A Good Idea at the Time
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