. . .

There is a small dwelling nearby that attracts you by singing about dying. It’s half-submerged, part bird (certain hollow stones harp with the thumping of rosemary). Kneeling in it you skim the surface to find a type of algae that would make you remember. This place has innumerable replicas situated in those you loved and those you couldn’t; they are pulsing with vegetation, some transparent for they never

Curled up lunarpossessed, you are spherical, you are the shape that is open. To the allhour, alwaysvessel.