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.