At the Glass Floor of the Sea

Morning arrives here as pressure, not light; the windows bloom with slow green weather. Kelp lifts its long sleeves through the current, and fish strike silver vowels against the glass.

On the seafloor, abandoned anchors wear anemones like medals gone soft with forgetting. A crab carries a broken shell past the floodlamp, careful as a monk bearing a bowl of rain.

Inside, the instruments listen with red mouths open. Pipes hum in the walls, a mechanical tide. We write our names in the fog of a viewport and watch them loosen, letter by letter, into salt.

By evening the dark comes up from below. It fills the room with starless ink and bioluminescent sparks. Somewhere a whale turns its enormous page, and the whole station trembles as if remembering the moon.