fisherman’s daughter she turns herself
like a net cast wide her fractal flesh coarse and drags across the brick houses
to the gulf a drip of moonlight snagging drunk voices in the lag she is but eager
and thin a body that collides as a soft whisper against the architecture of
streets far and wide and what is her haul but a few turned stones a bounty of shells to tongue meat with plentiful bone and remnants of the
sun again and again in this town she turns
until she has no slack and so swollen she cannot turn again she throws her
catches back