What was dead has fallen. What was light, lifted wing.
In the end, oiled birds stippled slinky shore indecent. 

In the beginning, Tiger Beetles, Salmonflies, imago, hailed well, yet
we fell under – Sunline, stray thunderstorms, roiled, crestfallen –
trailed, tailed, shadowed, skulked fossil wakes – unease a slumber. 

In the belly of tomorrow, we pulled the world into herself.
Naissance slept imperiled, still.      Still sleeps.

There was more to breaking surface than facing strike, wake.
Frantic pitch, surrender, a million eels, solar flared, in radiant muse,
shallows slipped so distant we pleaded with Gar, bargained
mercy over misery, what was lake remain, what sea recede – 
            we sang here. 

This poem first appeared in Brooklyn Rail (April 2016).