So I descend a little further into the yawn,
night spliced with a pit of grunting pigs,
weaving round intervals of whale vertebrae
that sing like singed tree-stumps in the round.
I meet a heavy argon sea of phosphorescence,
dip a bottle into the waters and watch it gulp
the flickering amethyst fish into its belly.
The waves fold in on themselves and turn their backs.
Tired soil will give up her secrets, and her bones;
in this swallowed world, avenues graft and split like veins from the galleries below.
Terra ignota, crawling into the unmapped.
The danger of wrecks is that they lure us into believing we can reconstruct.