Sea-apes become poets when touched by fire.


Be born in wax.

Pool and rumble in eddies of proteins.

Eat clams.

Walk upright with volcanoes at your feet.

Count the vertebrae on your wrinkled fingers.


Doulas draped like seals collect the wax and mould it into the shapes of the mothers’ fears (this one a farmhand, that one a pie), hold the figures beneath their larynxes as they utter secret sounds, and then let the figures loose to sink or swim as the tide chooses.




Arthropods are not a control group.

The sea does not move, or else moves too much.

The moon lunges.

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