We sit on tethered banks
by the parched spring,
cast into too many times.
Beads of silver
lie in the depths
of this cracked clam.
We steal –
We render –
We draw in the silt.
Fickle veins plume.
Fallow gums rekindle fervency.
No more coasts tomorrow.
Only the one eye knowing.
There hangs the straining chord
of stories grown too old.
