I. Tide Sleeping, breath rolls in waves,surf on the shore of dreams.Moon hauls the dreamer's water, phase by phase;kelp-dark thought uncoils, opens like a palm. Thought-flotsam the shore collects,wrack from teeming verdant life.The dreamer buries treasure;the woken mind finds a chest—jinni, genius, jest—Ozymandias trailing his measure across wet sand. Slowly, tide erases all it gave,back … Continue reading Tide & Upwelling: A Diptych
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The Counted
I. The archive office smells of lamp oil and wet ink and the particular sourness of paper that has absorbed ten thousand nervous hands. Nara presses her palm flat against the edge of the stone counter and waits. She is good at waiting. She learned it young, the way you learn to breathe through your … Continue reading The Counted
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