. .

The drowned place was close, but I couldn’t speak of it. Scoured with mouthings of light; only reflecting; the opening filled with the sound of water. Instead I remade the model, a miniature that might suggest the temper of the seaweed, brinearound the entrance, steady sucking and drawing an inward drone. Looking, as if hind-eyed; looked-at, an entrance so unclear that it appears to swim with hair.