The trick is the flow. Little fish with storms on their minds. Stones don't reveal what they covet today, but I know them. I gather scraps and throw them back, throw them back to the waves even as they climb toward my room. So where to go when my pockets are light? Night-shy, evening shells-- all eyelids and ears. The glinting blades and their kindred---do they ever say, no one ever, clean start, and clean, stark, smoothed galleries within galleries I want emptied of desire, but geled with color and domes of sea- sweets. Look at the lapses in between stars, vertebrae washed up at my feet.