At 4:37
the reef clock knelt sideways—
barnacle flutes ceased mid-testament.

It came then.
The high scream of bygone modems
carved into seawater like
code in conch shells.

Crabs faltered mid-gossip.
A wrasse drifted upward,
jaw slightly parted,
as if the tone meant famine
or love.

Each burst—static, then confession,
then a long flatline hum
that could have been
a father’s absence
or low-grade sonar
from the ancient bathysphere
that never surfaced.

The polyp
a soft-fleshed architect
looped this agony daily,
a seethe of data through
its half-translucent lumen,
translating tide height
into what a human child
once cried
into a pillow
stitched with stars.