God had to do something with their wrecks so
I rise upon my tyranasaurus backbone and, aloft,
Wonder what was returned as me.
Sediment of unused stardust choked for dysplasia greens drunk on nectar beading from inactivity or steam of the Pacific I pretend suspends above me as a child, my back to the grass
Staring down 30,000 feet to sea.
All of blood, the same salt recipe as such Ocean, harvested for the dreaming.