Trails

A deep-sea sponge does move.
It takes its time, more time

Than you have for your life.
It has no feet, no limbs,

No eyes, no nerves, no heart.
It can’t hop, float, or flex,

But it gets there. It has
No roots to hold it down.

On sea floors, in the dark,
Right now, while you read this,

Hear this, or sleep through this,
The sponge crawls. More than one—

Whole deep-sea peaks are mats
Of sponge, like mats of scrub

Trees, dwarf woods, grass, and moss
That cling to the cold, blown ground

On the peaks in the air,
But these woods move. Right now,

In the dark, on sea floors,
Home to them, where they live,

The great hosts of the sponge
Move, bit by bit by bit,

To leave their trails to trace
What a vast beast life is.