There is a coursing wave throughout
the fine parts of my frame, where
the fish schools come to investigate
the mystery of my death. They don’t
make much of it anymore–they are
used to the sight of rotted bones
after millennia of foreign beings
crashing through the firmament which
separates their world from mine.
If I can call it my world anymore.
I was built on dry land but born
in salt waters, and if I had not sunk
into craggy depths, I would have crumbled
into pieces on the same kind of mass that
allowed me an existence at all.
And anyway, I have lain here for centuries,
so shouldn’t I be calling the ocean
floor home to my soggy body?