Clam Chowder

We share the same address in general,
between the bookends of time and the reachable,

The share the same address in general;
be we herons, fish in beak,
or fish on the brink of depth everlasting.
What oceans are not connected?
What molecule is not molecular?

We share the same predicament in general
between time's unseen bookends and the reachable
the hear and now, the then and maybe,
poles of contraction and expansion,
space moved like checker pieces.

It's like a blustery day
on the coast of new found land.
Like a bowl of clam chowder,
the sea within, the sea without;
In our blood, the fisherman's bait.
In our salt, the tales we tell,
lore that's stellar and navigational
lore that's utterly necessary.