Soles cut numb in clamshell shallows.
Turn shoreward: sheer to the zenith,
steeps of old growth are razored
clean to soil, a stubble of umber.
And the last colossus, shorn
to limbless, barkless lumber,
floats like a gangland corpse
face down in shorewater,
shrinking, as dead things do
in Ovidian dreams, as if such mythic
worlds could cease, as if
this were a dream.