Rain commenced, and wind did. A crippled ship slid ashore. Our swimmer's limbs went heavy. The sand had been flattened. The primary dune, the secondary dune, both leveled. The maritime forest, extracted. Every yard of the shore was shocked with jellyfish. The blue pillow of the man o' war empty in the afterlight. The threads of the jellyfish, spent. Disaster weirdly neatened the beach. We cultivated the debris field. Castaway trash, our treasure. Jewel box, spoon ring, sack of rock candy. A bicycle exoskeleton without wheels, grasshopper green. Our dead ten speed. We rested in red mangrove and sheltered in sheets. Our bruises blushed backwards, our blisters did. is it true is it true God help us we tried to stay shattered but we just got better. We grew adept, we caught the fish as they fled. We skinned the fish, our knife clicked like an edict. We were harmed, and then we healed.
A rose, rose. A violet, violet. A jade, jade.
No. The architecture of each, a refusal.
Rose is not rose nor violet violet nor jade jade.
But each is what it is, not what it seems.
What each seems is what of each gets seen.
Though what we see isn’t the thing seen.
The petals of the rose are violet and jade.
Thus the petals of the rose look, to us, rose.
The shape of the violet absorbs all but violet.
The violet we see is the violet a violet rejects.
A rose is a rose is a rose, but not as a rose.
Jade is the name of jade, not the jade named.