The Turtle Eaters Curled between white-stressed noses, uncancelled plashing, come to shore—they, crawl golden, through stacks of shells that remind of what’s gently left behind.

Their shells doze yet rise at ease, trade anguish along by blood, stretching outward like a flood of swirling coyly swayed earth, travelling among rustling grass. While in the stretch of branches upturned, drifting north, they wouldn’t need to care! Eager waits the water, sending off, nearly — grounds are heavier about their shells gone acorn lightly, allowing dried tuxedos in unseen forms; roots peeking from beneath, while they take over seaferring tides— serenity hugs now for one and only within.

• Marianne Moore