Through a certain lens, you think, here is a moment adjacent to, or inside of, some incessant hunger. Which repeats until it breaks. Which breaks only when it kills the host. Above us, as storm of a century (another?) ––and below our feet, until the raft where we were standing is also gone. This was hunger, too. And the sea sounds to be made of a hunger all its own, but this is not what it is. That swallows us. This is not what it is that has fed and ferried. Us between homes where we dream of the floor of it. From where we go looking for the floor, in vessels and with instruments. Sometimes we do not find the floor. Sometimes the vessels do not return. Sometimes they return to tell us that the floor is home to life for which we have no name, that the floor is an opening to something else, a liquid earth that rises through its own cracks, spreading.
