On our backs, under a moony sky
the water cradles us
as in a poured glass globe.  

We hold hands
so the drift won’t
pitch us apart.  

From the ancient, crumbled floor
a whiskery shadow
edges my knee.  

I still see your hair spread—
a ghostly sea fan.    

~ Found poem composed/modified from words in Jean Valentine’s poem, “Lines in Dejection”