Ses Illetes lies below, for walking. These quiet hours that make one new, rewalking the steps that have been passed over, eased away by the sea. Beach flotsam, an ocean in a shell, the gold of the azure. One thousand years yours, one ear in France, one eye in Spain, space swimming in these eyes. Floating shade and ebbing light, making ornaments of accidents, a strange force inching it all together, the warmer current of water.