There is no mystery in the barrel or plunge of your waves, your sounds are borrowed powers of the meat fed to the dwellers of your womb, and I have even been told what you ingest keeps travelling, the further you flow, the darker becomes the depths of a bound fate – fish to fish, whale to whale – there are emigrants, never stopping to die in one place; the progress of the person trapped between your tides reflects in patches on your surface when you turn still and your face becomes a transparent sheen. * Previously Published at Poetry Bay