Reclining on a pincushion, your needle eyes tethered to their fine threads of dream, how extravagant were you, my siren! A movable feast of wreckage brought the best jetsam, ship bellies opening on the reef, releasing their cargo into the current. Yet we fish in your waters still, drawn by the roar and hiss of surf, applicants for permanent residence in the flow state. Our ships carry factories; our nets are vast and drag weights that brutalize the unseen depths. Our earplugs are made of old age and apostasy. I sing sometimes in the shower, under my breath.