The Salt Place

To sink is to be
when the harmonies start
To think is to grieve
for thoughts misplaced to the sea.
The clouds meet water
and shout the loudest
and in that still, salt place
we were founded.

The morgues are lined
in white and shine
The preserved divine
are where we cease to matter.
Think of all the time
that is crystal
and fades to water
as though it were ghost.

The land breaks without murmur
and that’s where we lay
To say we spin without
nuance is blasphemy.
This white, rock place
is all we know.