THE-ART-DEN

What strange currency exists between the tides - the murmur of something bronze and round imprinted gravely with the day, and thin sheets of seaweed curling up against my feet. A mermaid's purse, black and withered, dwelling in these rocks - and the bright riviere of whelk and conch to cross the palms of selkies in the mornings; the glistening sail in men of war- lapis blue veiled and veined just below the surface, as one slick whisp of silver darts between my fingers and drifts into the current.