No bird but a beak it has,
the octopus, tucked up where its
ass also is, and a sack
of ink should it take offense, and a brain
that is centered but also seems
to run each arm, so one wonders
if the right hand knows what
the left hand, no, the other left hand,
no, the other, oh, never mind.

A starfish is all head but
for its butt, hole faced
toward the world, mouth down
on the floor, piece of sky
fallen seaflat, thinking,
wha- wha- wha-, kissing
the ground with its furry lips,
farting into the sea, vertically.

Humankind's been yanked upward,
teeter on our birdy legs, no wings,
so far, but we're handsy, our eyes
cast sky high, tied to big brains
that bobble our heads as we
look around, reach, snatch,
shake our fists, point at things
and say, Hey! Hey! and
have learned to wonder,
though not answer effectively,
"What's going on here?"

__

I'm always aware of being a member of just another species among many on this Earth, all doing our thing, for whatever time we have here. An inveterate reader of science writing of all kinds, I store away bits and pieces of odd information. This poem started with the starfish, and, er..., evolved from there. Recent mindblowing read: Strata, by Laura Poppick. This planet is a strange arrangement indeed.