Submerged, long hours like spider webs hanging from a discolored chandelier
::sunshine, the warmth of the beachhead.
We sit on the ledge of the afterglow of senses::
sundials into a nameless sea
– a plurality of veins and scant fog.
Fog is not a memory, though, to be explored in the space of its rhythm –
toppled sand mixed with brackish water.
We are alone::quiet dead birds inside the raw filament of an extinguished brain,
the boundary of a single nerve.
Call it leaf, if you must.
