When you began, it was whether or not, 
a daily rhythm in my heart,
but now the burgeoning kicks in and spins 
your opening phrases out 
into the weather of these waters, 
where the skeins of inner sun 
are a sunset through the skin 
and dancing fronds resemble coral 
round the bubble of your sac 
and your hands try to capture 
nubs that stray into their grasp — 
taking, testing, small philosopher,
materialist of mine, with a focus never known
once in possession of a mind.