. . . . .

A molten state declares desire for movement. Hard chitins make good boats, the water attests; intruders built from your sleep harry landbodies into seabodies, change the matter to which they are worthy. When the weight of a place pushes with its humidity and its seagrasses, your rolling allows for only a few configurations: migrant craft or fugue vessel.

From the cockpit, a survey is made of where a vein might flourish — surely on another continent where it is safer underground. If you stand near an opening you might see someone who looks like you — down to the matching mirage of their entrails, which you read together.