Queue the Sequin Sequence

Enough volume of anything creates a direction.

So many of us gathered in the station

we became a silver streak.

I flowed aboard the train

as a glass of seltzer into a stream,

not realizing the democracy

was one molecule, one vote.

A bucket seat did not quite contain me,

the water in me wising

to the wet in you each jolt,

brain a buoy in the current,

plum in the pool.

Someone gobbled plaice or buttered grouper

while the wingnuts of a jacket lapped my flaps.

It’s not manners that matter but density

in crowds, not class but state,

not fish but their appetite

for education, massing, following, how it

loops and swells, eddies, spools,

performs the same flawless suture

as the ocean on its wounds.

It seeps downhill and machines draw it up.