The reef is dark and crawling.
Few hulls glide this late
in evening--their lights
filter down, a glinting snow,
and streak a wriggling side.

The ocean is a thick wind.
Bones are a brackish rain
when it blows. A lungfull
is the sailors' oldest song.

My shell is sunk,
a briny dissolution.
Hands reach, fingers drag
my surface, their waves
just a fine trembling.