A sea cloud wisped out of the ripples – fins of multiple sharks ripped through their placid countenance; two boats and a water bike raced for the shores, only one made it. His heart is enormous like the sky – he spills from his cups like a knave on the decks, like wet fields under fresh seeds, and his shores are rusty sand of savage habituation; people will use his waters selfishly. In my dream he lights a fire behind my veil; he rides the sea crushing against his calves; he walks liquid roads between crosses amongst a ball of constellations; his fantasies are the folds of the splits of rock-skies – and I know that which is written on his flames, they are indigo- whispers preying on his flesh; I am the pentacle brandished on his forehead, a waterfall of embers, like my hair: black on a white night. We put cracks in the possible and shine through dead clouds fallen into seas, metamorphosing as spirits, the bodies of these on which he races to safe possessions – after all, sky is water in inverse roles: the character of the universe, the sprite of the urchins, the electrons of loneliness, the silver-lit arches of infinity. * First published at Visual Verse