Meanwhile the silence. And the spruce.
And a long, gauzy silhouette. Meanwhile freshwater
learns the omens of cormorants
and salt. Somebody’s excited about the long days,
maybe the breeze, which comes & goes,
planing the sails, sanding the cove.
Darkness is easier than light, if you want to know.
You don’t want to know. Crab husk,
kelp-lick: again the spine yawns at its pain, chisels
grow dull in the quarry of the brain.
Always a step away, the sea, moving out,
then in. Today I’m going to snap
a line on quiet’s inner ear and lay
some shingles there, as if anything could chasten
summer’s sweet rain—even now
as ants pepper the peonies, as hammers
beat anapests, the tide gurgles
through brakes in the mud. Or is that clay?
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