Archive of Tides

The sea keeps a library of lightless halls, where radios that never learned the coast still hum, and every wave is a page turning itself, wet vowels rolling against basalt.

Divers descend with their lamps like small verbs, touching the iron ribs of a weathered mast; rust blooms in slow syllables, a quiet alphabet for the hands that once tied weather to rope.

Above, gulls write fleeting scripts across wind, but down here nothing hurries except the sand, grinding stars into glass, into the future of a bottle washed ashore with no map.

At night the surface is a black mirror, and the drowned cities rise in it—softly, sideways— their windows lit by the plankton of old speech, green sparks spelling what we almost said.