Silver, the head of the unborn sank down.

Yes always, there is the self, black and near.

Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.

Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.

What we assumed was it broke up because it sank. Now we know it sank because it broke up.

She tried to get out but the more she tried to get out, the deeper she sank.