Tonight
my anemone skin
seethes in the boil
of moonlit space,
invisible cilia
ripple and wave
hungry to capture
anything.
Seldom
am I so tightly
wrapped in my flesh.
Seldom so unable
to dismiss it for
the carapace
I have no
use for.
Perhaps
it is exhaustion
or the rare desire
for the unknown:
the scent of
a night flower.