Our shells are formed under duress,
they lay out new growth in calcium carbonate
and protein, resume patterns of history;
driven by damage or fed upon the fat of love.
And drawn out, pencil lines are precise
on a sketch of an angel fish, divided
into segments of golden ratio, whispered
gradations of the same Fibonacci sequence
that spirals exoskeletons in ideal increments.
We coil, screws turn, life can seem to be no more
than an ongoing chronicle of a resistance
to death, but if we are made up of equations
then why do the numbers bleed into pools,
or the moon show its face in the glow of our nacre
and if you hand me the sun,
I will break it open like a hot nut.
Image from pixabay. Image on twitter also: