Conch shells in pyramids are stacked impeccably
in the voluptuous heat, enormous severed ears.
Flushed and pinkish as a newly bathed infant’s face.
The outer lobe seems supple and frail.
Hollow, deserted, dislocated, and vacant,
they ressemble ornate abandoned houses.
Inside corridors meander and circle inward,
like a loosely wound scroll,
coiling, curling.
Physicists say that all the universe is a spiral.
Galaxies are merry-go-rounds, giddy with motion,
and the double helix will tell us who we are.
Roses unfurl in swirls.
We spin and piroutte from birth,
splicing our energy with the great pulse of the planet,
envisioning it eddying toward something as benign
and beautiful as a perfect conch shell.
Sonny Rainshine
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/conch-shell/
