the shore washed up the water--
there we found the continent as
empty glass bottle, message from
a German baker circa 1913 a'floatin
through the Pacific as pure as our
intentions (just a little faded)

the floor was like a sleeping tree, vinyl
and material-coat keeps it warm, useful

I couldn't taste the water anymore; it had
become so fixed as 'eternal,' I forgot to
wonder: a baby, fresh to the world-- does
it taste air? like you smell other people's
houses on your very first visit?