Luna and Sol take turns
diving into the engulfments.
Buildings listing this way and that,
barnacled shipwrecks, most of their
window glass broken, or already salvaged.
Big wooden houses like temples adrift on the tides.
She sees others like them,
brightening near the surface,
darkening as they go under, trolling for
the souls of the drowned, caged as they
came to be, in boughten goods, in pretties,
usefuls, things you can hold in your hands.
Luna finds a plastic bucket, a sand etched
green glass bottle, a box of sodden
paper she can pulp and dry anew,
a camera filled with water
and tiny jellyboys.
Best is a jug unblemished,
she can plug with one
from the box of stoppers.
Sol saves his vigor for tools.