A nautilus shell washes up onto shore
its spiral vacant and unassuming
polished by the sand and borne
on by the god-claps of the sea.
And its bivalve heart can’t accept
its lack of agency, but drifts, fleeting
onward and into the depths.
On holiday in Athens, eating
mussels from the dish and grape leaves,
I sat in the shade of the Parthenon.
And loafing by the temple, pleased
with its eaves I thought of the golden
ratio and how I long to meet among the rose hips
and reckon the fraction of your parted lips.