Rills and hollows touch the sea, forming a wall to the left. Both
the sea and the hour are not as transparent as a woman sleeping
in hot weather when paper wasps go up in silent quartets, looking
for a hiding place in heated skin. Sea is not flesh nor is it paper,
though it does burn in rare instances like skin.
Ocean wind clothes herself in pure salt, pure water.
A woman sleeps on the mesa. In her sleep she notes the presence of
hidden gold stings, honey, and does not stir. Silent under the paper
wasps, imagining they're collecting shreds of cloth, unpieced books,
hair, she breathes an inner sea gathering its finite salt medicine
into an underground room of walls and swollen glass.