The sea shell is wrapped in a dirty newspaper blown by the breeze; it cradles in its peach scoop of heart secrets that I whisper. I see them crawl out, worms of worry to sit on the ridges – veins of the deep sea, folds of the blue sky.
Wind blows the cloud away, wisps of dreams make the moon tremble, ripples of waves fall in the centripetal pull of my love for you. You ask how sky and sea are connected. By the shell that breathes in the steady hum of the car.
Photo: Petr Kratochvil