Precision instruments of introspection
fall away. Flakes of paint. Failed butterflies. 
Grey-faced boat-sheds return to gestures,
their loose doors an invitation.

All the people we were, their cries,
drowned within their sorry sea.
Who should be the ones to survive
no one would believe.

That fat caterpillar that curls within an ear
tastes the words so hungered for
but sadly fumbles with the bunch of keys,
without the gift of understanding itself.

No one can mark their deep-swum way with words,
high value environs reached anyhow.
Leaving out seeds for colourful birds
we are leaving then, but arriving now.