Crackling pink, a sea bird’s morning eye plunders deep down the water cage and finds coral beds firing polyps to contact the sun.
Vision of a wound, from acreage of stolen incidents, an eye borne of the rocks, musters the creature torn and parading between two worlds, extension of beast and the soft touch.
The glands of the globe deliver a sound like a breath, a marine mantra softly going north from a base of genic heads, a family huddled in but generous, giving anthems made from a lung-dwelling, unlike the scratchings of speech.
The morning eye turns dusk, and gathers the polyps, slowly, it sets aim towards the disk, hoping that the fire promotes nothing but a pot of prayer where ashes will find their utterance.
