The Sea, the Valley and the Temple City

Clear creamy sky, sky traces of fuchsia cloud over the nearly horizonless sea I wake to, the fine underslum of the godway, looking straight into the music where we cannot be, awaiting a ticket, the dive of the pliosaur armies, the moment the sea is higher than the valley, dropping away from the sea, the very waking edge of ocean, the rift valley a thousand feet below where the river is lazily thinking to itself. The ocean to itself does not fall but the river spills into it so far away at the foot of the cliff the spiralling city is carved from. The ocean does not fall, as if it were held in a fairy tale and something is required of me. Torqued hive of fossil home dreamed from the shores of sleep, rising from the sea, older than sharks, older than shadow excavated by water, the nearly drowned tower, whose ghost language I’m at the foot of.