They lived in other bodies
tainted by flows: simple casings.
We found them ebbing along the shore,
chiseling the rocks. They said nothing
when we touched them.
And they chiseled in their soft way.
Foam popped slowly around them, too slowly,
though it was beautiful and dark.
The shore lithographed as the sun began to set:
the paint hardened over, crackless in its thick.
One by one the animals stilled
their work and accepted the night.
We ground our toes into the sand and lit a common cigarette,
and admired our work.