Slip your hands beneath the ocean,

sift the sands,

though the debris laid to rest

and the bones of forgotten things

boiled down to soup stock

in the murk.

 

There is still a thread there,

find it.

A silver of something live,

whispering as an eel

beyond your fingertips.

 

But you are not the trap

or the bait

or the line.

You are the caught thing,

the lost thing,

the forgotten thing.

 

Slip your hands beneath the ocean

and find yourself.