Our Nudibranchian language fails us now as it
Tries to tell us things different from those it can.
A nudibranch lament is warranted, Hermissenda replies.
Whose meaning changes as its object shifts with the tides.
We are so many empty nothings now.
Our new lives destroy us.
Is our grotto back in Capri still cracked?
Of course it is. Brought about by Tiberius’
Crowds, and their rowdinesses, their inhumanities to each other.
About to be our world again?
No longer as it was in the Cambrian.
Perhaps we no longer can adapt ourselves to change
left here to decay among these relics, these crumbling statues.
And Tiberius, and Barbarossa. We have too few holds now.
I was never a lover of mankind, but I pretended.
My fastidious vegetarian ways kept me alive.
Prevented me from change, from early dying.