Fibonacci's Sequence

Brushes excavate a nacreous glider
sailed
from below sparced out tides blowing over and setting calcium bubble foam one into the other against the propulsion of school fins.
Under there, free falling
beneath capital glory,
with the fibres, rocks and sticks, whatever plastics remain and bone.
 
Ganglion.
I've shaken tremors of that word,
but never thought.
 
Detergent gleamed somehow
and drenched in polish,
the spirals slab in queer out on the walls.
Something died, but isn't there.
A cross disavowed from Peter,
his rear exposed,
arriving early to a cult of a nautilus,
in trade for the cleaven ribs of 50,000 breed of lone sailer, even of mud,
in souvenir to memory,
though refrained in epilogues and journal submissions
for prize to uncover which divergents were lost to governance the last century
in spastic decoration.
 
Ganglion.
Stung, but I don't know.
The receptors ache, but concede no comprehensive word.
To death,
in the noise diffusion of boiled existence, essence bleaching clear of the froth of maiden subjectivity,
I'll have you know (Sarte and Kierkegaard)
in the crisis for the pique of the eyes,
I and ourself from you
and the rambling mollusk.
To death.