The sewage prophet, searching the storm drains for marks of the great day. The idol-keeper, inviting those spectators with enough cash and proper hygene to crawl into the bottom of the basement to pray to the corpse of an alien kept in a freezer beside the steaks and ground beef. The bell-ringer, searching the pull of the lights across the lot-pond, searching for slate-eyed aquatic angels, silk-gilled to slit the surface of the sea, casting nets for gulls, flute-hued enharmonic lures, profane hymnal-texts chipped into shell, dried in the eyes. Better to go with the dragonflies, shells in your bags and salt-scented eddies in your hair, up to your thighs, you breasts, your mouth, until drift-given algae halos your head. I knew you once as a mer-girl, who had seen palaces beneath the waves, where sound is distorted and silence is plentiful as sunlight. You couldn't even hear the words. There are others, out building glass-bottom boats, designing submarines to pilot to their sunken graves, sea-harvesters who sell their stories to the tourists in-between sights. Stranger things I've seen from the surface, perhaps, cradled in living cloaks of luminous jellyfish, tossing stones at the shore. Perhaps.

the exit is hidden within the exit