Wading into the empty sea
with nets thin as lace, we start
to scrape the seabed, dragging
our pile of invisible leaves
to the surface. But there’s nothing
there. We pretend that shrimps
are crawling in the muck, clambering
over one another as they try
to escape. You drop the haul into
the pan and as the heat digests them,
we lay on the sand and watch the stars
tell our evening story. But that never
happened.
