Seeing twenty gaspillion shredded dot-

ing "terminions" (as they call themselves)

surround the casket of their queen

and eat, eat, eat

, I wondered, my soul occupying one glass bottle

inside the cupboard of the galley,

glued in place

against shattering.

If an army of termites ate through

the only ship holding me out of water,

blessing their queen's passage over lethe

with the freeing of a single bubble of glass

holding an aching spinster of an element,

well, then what light? In water what light?