Over a table-surface the lampreys of fingers subsisting on air and nothing. They erupt into sentience as all things fossils admit them as honorary sediment at the seabed and their hands pretend
In the hours of the tide’s chill retreat the bubbler crabs redraw the atlas. Pearls of sand spread and reach in strands the length of the beach,
agreeing the coastlines of new continents, tracking minute deltas and dotted bays,
Remember when you wrote that poem? On the first line you levered two ideas in five words. On the second line you decided it was a holiday. By the third line you sold your ego to the universe. But the fourth line had you phoning for travel insurance.
Once off the ship from sector blah blah <
i. two monitors the cop & neighbour in your head duplicity in systems the sprinkler is wetting everything