Every day is worth a poem, The Marina, Coffs Harbour 

None of these fish have names, not even the big ones
trapped behind bars and inside a poem, the calligraphy
chiseled by the ruffled water, not even the ones caught
killed, grilled or pan fried, masticated and swallowed.

My selfie dances to the tune of Francis Bacon, could be
worth a fortune, but I like the prop, the broken pipe
that works so well in the composition. I can’t show you
two Gunther’s Butterflyfish that melted into a cleft.

Think of a number between one and a million, double it,
multiply by the expected rise in global temperatures minus
the mass of plastic in the ocean, take a moment to admire
an elderly on patrol, then a Rorschach to test our sanity.

A leap of faith, plump oysters, the difference between wood
and plastic with the marketing value of Jeff Koons’ sheen,
The Pelican, the fisherman hiding, the noise from a piledriver,
gills, lungs, fins, machines, all elements are urgently active.