"The earth does not judge what the sea takes. Some mornings the sky simply opens and swallows."
- Poet
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Save the earth. Obliterate your world. Begin by ending. Let the sky-ceiling buckle and split. You are the first to go. Scrape the crusted-hard scabs from your skin. Shred the nerves where the winter enters. For the earth—which needs no saving— your worldly heart must stop. Your flesh feeds the gulls. White wings. Red beaks. Stripped clean. (A child on the pier lowers her hand, the splintered stick held mid-air.) The gulls do not look up. They finish what they started and leave the bones to the tide.
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