The mangrove, the preserver, holds its tongue
As flashlight cones are whimpering
And twitching like a hand

Sighing without sound or light
The dense lungs of the waterline
Where flatness asks the water in
To fall through lit rafters
Spearing like a shiv of dust

To meet it, the preserver
Which is mangrove here but winter there
Do not probe your fearfulness and pride
Just try to shimmer by
Without a look into the pit
On your way to Dresden on a train
Your luggage close
Your bulging gut that's rooted through
With hairline strands of thread and loam
It wants it
The smell of mud
Through the cold glass with one small scratch
The mangrove, the preserver, holds its tongue