The world’s pulse, warm, briny, spilt nectar
came flowing forth from rock-pore labyrinth,
came wisping, trickling, a littoral specter
haunting Zhaori basins. In spite of death,
the salt-blood, white-fizz sea through
tide pool lungs in rasping ebbs drew breath.
Could the ocean still hear its diaspora
in empty shells? Or would it soon forget
the battered shores the land is master of?
INSTANT NOODLES 