The sun sets in her chrome chest.
She crosses the sky on foot.
Her thirst is snow, over La Mer Du Nord –
never to freeze to stone.
Her veins are crammed with fish and plants,
the Gulf Stream she is at night,
turtles are palms, swordfish are heart ,
deep-breathing herring are lungs.
Her climbing thoughts like lobster-monks
crawl over the slippery stars.
Her hands hold tight to wind and tides,
the coral reefs serf her blood.
Rodeo rides commits the knife,
over Punica granatum –
the sun is up, the sword – inside,
the scarlet red fills the dark,
the dark blue of her Noordzee.