Some bodies cradle aeons of
tectonic songs. Galveston silt
and Polynesian myth, it doesn’t matter
which creaking ocean swayed at rest
when Hinemoa swam towards her lover’s music,
we’ve all heard it – the static
just beneath the tide, a turning
record lost above the horizon.
Submerged long enough, meaning erodes
so listening is all that’s left, not self,
not silence. Nothing twilight touches
can sound the length of this wave,
unravelling in fathoms and fathoms to
echo the only words worth knowing.