They tell me turn here and I look out across the pierced ocean. A pier. A splinter. A path of rafters; spaces between boards large enough to swallow our daughter’s foot. Timber taken from a fog-blanket up north, where no one would miss another dismantled shipwreck. The timbre of the ocean like a heartbeat, like salt-soaked axe wounds and scars of metal lashings. Starfish sucking sap, now dying by the thousands. O sea canaries! Tell me I am here, when I am not.