Visages perch like leaves offered to the sun,
as we lie below, sleeping in a stream,
toe-to-toe, our gills inundated with burning.

A half-light permits itself to be shown.
Its voice is used.

Sea monkeys may sing their fragments.
Their dreams are sharp coral
that drag power from the broken body
of a shore.
They are in sin -
a thing owned so unseriously.

With the setting sun, the great aftermath
looks on in leisure, and as a slave to the mystique:
time’s wide course
does not return nor continue accordingly.