The question spirals down his throat

and lodges in his ribcage.

It is conch; a flowering artichoke;
a cochlea that hears only pulse.

It speaks a seaborne dialect. It speaks
of gases compressing, of stars
seeding like sunflowers, of the origin of salt.

It speaks of the trails of ancestors
dragging themselves from the surf;
a shedding of fins, scales, monocular vision.
The question turns again
and hooks in deep.

As he wanders the cathedral gardens of Pisa
he sees it in everything.
The tower straining for it. He feels
its pressure when he inhales:
a bruise, a colour breathing into life,
the small ache
of coming back to himself
while spinning further away.

(from my collection 'To Know Bedrock', published by Pindrop Press)

Fibonacci Takes a Walk to Clear His Head