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Collar color on the riverbed sand like stones, 

rounded beneath the heavy sky, clear then cloudy, 

in the masted bits, in the spiracles in the rounded melts, 

in the deep sea where cast upon the back of dead lay freezing, 

lay the brown to silt never stirred never stirring still, and loose, 

and yet, 

together underneath the rock and stony crabs, 

and the way they all would scuttle about, the sound, 

of seacaves:

when as a little boy I’d shout just to hear the muffle of the algeaic walls,

 these are the colors of our sphere, our dot,

and though the light may not touch us in the same way twice it's still a million years old,

and that we have mirrors to conceive it's bouncing,

the bouncing of light light and water,

playing on the surface of that river,

that river bedded with rocks rounded by time the muse

the muse is time the muse is water 

themselves lovers so eternal they've worn down all the edges of their beds with their love making

so too the sky the wind with rock 

no harder lover is there than the rock and yet, 

the shapes the make together! 

The things the wind can get the rock to do! 

So beautiful so intimate so wonderful so glorious bright and bending.