:Poem
Here is the fiction:
The wave-tips rise, splendid with light,
and we are not harmed, but hum with the tides
and ebullient moon
the blood-rose
upswelled: that we
are of light,
that we are the blooming,
thrown upwards in moonlight
toward welcoming sands.
THIS IS THE FICTION.
He died well. Believe it. That light is
the wave--