We are description. We believe in a science that we can’t prove. We pray we don’t subduct. We practice ways past this, and poetry. It is our opinion that shorelines extend when examined with contracting units of measurement. We believe this because it has been true so far. We look, we look and slow time, long-time, comes up to the surface, tides its way through an inscape of molecules. An absence waxes and wanes. A cup of our hands around a current. A try to ossify water. A slip of continent falling, continually through and over things. Trailing behind a wake of change like perfume for a sense other than smell, like a body with indistinguishable edges. Against the grain that I saw and against yours as well, we came to believe that everything is made of sand. Peccable. Something that you can tear your hands on. I went to the beach and the sand said to me, I have not always been this way. I am being transported down the edges of every shape, depositing into reaches-out and reaching out and leaving again. The water replied, being is a state of spilling, continued and multitudinous. So try to describe it for me, this from the water. I looked at a piece of plastic on the street and felt like I was up to my ankles in it. The plastic, the plastic filter of a cigarette, the plastic turned its head and looked at me. It said, I hope you see this before your body degrades. I hope you see this. We sat in the shallow end of time and nobody noticed us but it was pretty great anyway. That’s a present dispossessed. You feel its confrontation on your spine.The possession of history. And vice versa. We can never get inside everything, because once you are open we meet another surface. Visibility precluded by a body. The body is complicit in a history of site. What can we hold there? Not to possess, but to see and be changed by and release. You see and you are not the same. I touch you and you are not the same and we are not the same. We are not the seam. In meeting, you are restructured. We are re-sutured. Find us. Find the straightest line and sharpest point. A razor will do. Examine it through a microscope and you can see that it is unredressed. Nothing shows its face there. Don’t look away. Hooke revealed a crisis in a point. It is not punctual! Either it has not yet arrived or it never will—it has delivered a scaffold in its place. A trellis. Time sprouts. It climbs. Maybe the foliage is not a structure. It whispers to us at night, above jellyfish and under bird smell it tells us that it is still here but won’t be forever. Clockwork stutters like water staling. The seed thought being of liminality, thresholds, sites of transition. Ways past this. And poetry. It feels unsure. It seems to rest, but it is always an ebbing or a rising, a position or a deposit, a leaning, a falling, a current, a failure, a swell, a tear, a flea, a footprint, a future, a flea, a flight, a shell, a high, a blooming foam. And then there is not. A sunset redshift in the sands. Something is always leaving us. We see—sometimes—we speak. We seek. An end exists somewhere.