Detailed representation.

Read closely, you'll see no watery ripples for waves written

In the atlases where the oceans build, rebuild and bequeath--

Nor help from an illustrator's presentiment

of brine terrain danger where

The rocks and white phantoms wait down beneath.

Nor, too, is there no helpful key for the dry land located in between,

For the cragged folds of fool's gold

That lie around--

Impatient too

For a fool's trembling gold-dig to chip away at custodially

And exhume.