Extravagance is peach coloured corals on ocean beds that have been swayed out of their trails, to spray as pink foams on night beaches pulled apart by hatch- ling crabs. The lights in my room are much unlike the silver haze-condense of a current winter moon. Soon enough, the mic of the neighbouring mosque will gargle out the static from its throat, and bring awake the kinds of blooms hard to open. When the first verse will break out of a dry thatch, all that sleeps must come to the litany pool. In it reflections will drown out distracting gushes of disposed waves, gasping like a swimmer's lungs swallowed many of the loose gems floated to the surface as waste. The taste will be of salt as endurance of palate. And when the second verse should roll like a long scroll to where the sand has several pockets of golden shadows, you will know the horizon has stilled. *previously published at Uppagus