Thursday, April 30, 2009


The wharf quails a shaggy fist
At the sea's salt-searing whips,
Which tear at the shores,
Lick and lave the leewardings,
As seashells fill up with blood,
And the cormorants' cry
Pierces the leaden air,
Cleaves a line and bites it deep
So the edges burr--
Engrave this knowledge--
The heart's flesh shines like copper,
And song is torn by sea's hands,
Thrown into scaly spittle on the waves,
But still discerned in discrete golden drops.

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