For about a month, actually, maybe a half year, I’d sorted aside a collection of cups that piled up in a pyramidal arrangement at my house. I’ve got one house, and it’s not in Seattle, it’s in the San Juans. And that’s where I live, really. In many senses of the word(s).

Anyway, my lover and I climbed down this cliff, with this big canvas
bag, carrying all of these cups. And some shells. And some whitish
stones. And I carried this bag down there then started to hurl this
over my shoulder, back and back, back and forth. All the shells, all
of the cups, the stones, became a kind of stars. White stony stars,
that then became stars in the sea, and stars in the night, and stars
arranged, whorling out, galaxy like.

There, beyond the shore, in the cold waters, past the shuffling
waves, beating overhead.

And then, the stars in the sea, creating their own galaxy.

Adrift in the infinite oceans…