***

Young women wearing uniforms are marching through the streets of a port town. The wind pulls their shoulders, the sun lights up their faces; they're laughing. Some other time this town would bring rifles or stench, but now the air is filled with oxygen, in the background there's some sweet scent of the cologne. The sky from above the masts is descending in between the thighs. The sails are fluttering to satiate their lungs. Later at night the pavement looks exactly like the water depths. The women are stepping into it, hosts of sleepwalkers. Where do you exist for real. Maybe in the slim cigarettes smoke, maybe nowhere, or maybe right here, where the water hits against your thinly skin coated collarbone. Don't look at the lights. Let it go, don't fight. It was meant to be. The legend of the port town runs smoothly, some four year olds will drop their coins after you and their fathers will strain to see whether it's coppers that sparkle under water or your hair, like on that day when you were walking in your uniform, the wind blew and the port sky was falling on people's heads.