Seashell
fragments
spoke
and scratched;
split and raveled catch-
filled nets.
No boat,
no boatman,
passes.
On cyan Kali’s
mother spray
the seining labor’s
lighter,
now ripened in
the bay’s effulgence
milk of salt is whiter.
I speak of what the
world neglects,
take
it on myself:
the pool, the
lota, sacred waters,
in the waves
the coiling milt.
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