Mimicking

In this reality, the ocean is able to displace itself
at will in pulsing fog-twists. It rematerializes
in a cross-section chunk here between us
at the dinner table: we see a small diorama
of marine life, thrumming, trying its best
in the wake of this new, churned division.
We are unsure what point it is trying to make.
Mischievous or Solaris-sinister, our ocean-square
extends in a clothlike ripple, hides beneath chairs,
follows me to where I stand at the mirror. It waits
behind me in a folded mass. In this guise or pose
it resembles a bedsheet ghost costume; nobody
standing beneath to hold its shape. I advance,
stare into its distended surface, a single eye
that bulges, repositions itself. In the murk
of its coursing centre I see a small shoal
of something shrimplike twitch, redirect
tendrils toward my gaze. I begin to brush
my hair, maintaining eye contact if coldly

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