The grey arms press—as gravity
insists—a figure bearing down:
the room contracts, a body
forms around what comes undone,
as fabric keeps what holding left,
not burden, more a sinking through—
the way earth holds a body, cleft
and closed again: the dark fills you,
a child face down in sand—what pours
into the mold is space beneath
the valleys on an ocean floor.
The grey arms reach: a wreath
of smoke, like unstrung pearls,
falling on the naked shoals.