There’s a window in the forest
You can see through time’s brambles
Back to an age of churning
When our bones were future’s murmurs
There’s a door in the last wave
At the shelf of the world
Where the sea flakes to sleep
And old age and hiss and milk
The keyhole in the high night winks turns
Brings out the proletarian sun
How do you do it everyday
The world is not far away
It’s closer than the cuttlefish
The wave spins inside the wave
Bezels Holding the Dream of the Long Sea
Old thoughts on old life, dense swamp of mossy ocean eating the ocean, churned by the sun. Etc.