O...O...the others...Foundlings in the sea. I can’t reach. Their arms are drowning. The island in the sun, the little winds above, the fortress, all clouds. The lists go on. Save me, they say, and I cannot do it. The worst island in history, except for all the beautiful and rapturous things there, the land and her birth and all the green thriving. All these things are immaterial, but they matter more fundamentally than sustenance. They are more fortunate than air. Sea wraps around, and I cannot see the foundered sky through the gaps in my hands, which are like a roof in the rain. I can see through the rafters into what the smallest space was five years ago. Before it was an all-of-it island offered up to the sea.
Free hands. Further. Dynamites and wrath. These tidy quicksands. Pull my breathing into a stretch. Save me. I cannot do it. Hell-bent for arms I am, and ready, and breathing. And love longer than the stars around this place. An island, yet.
Who knew?
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