The stones are such that the yellow flippers of seagulls
melt and flow down them like cheese.
Here we have become wild as a black, you and I,
my lobe-finned abyr.
Time has baked, like a fig on a branch.
Instead of minutes, glare jumps on the warm water.
At night, the moon emerges like a boiled shrimp,
getting entangled in a cloudy beard.
A boat crawls along the horizon, stitching
the sea and the sky into a smoky one.
When it crawls there, there will be no end or edge to
our summer. I go to the bottom,
into the greedy webs of the mottled light,
the clicking of pebbles - slow castanets,
where the blue current has not yet finished singing
the booming measured whispers of past years.
The sea washes away the traces and carries them away into the abyss,
there it keeps them among the antediluvian boulders.
So that someday we too will rise again
in the noise of the surf, my lobe-finned fish.