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