a thousand old beaches
feel that sleep, in a simple way,
holds buried spirit

those waves stir
the rocks deeper than
that dark mystery

in the throat of a
most ancient
music, I,
all marble and salt,
listen

since the
arsenical lobster
exhausts the
voice of shadows,
listeners,
in liquid flesh,
raise their contours
to silent contemplation

but I,
unforeseen,
must bow to
weeping,
and the damp wonder
of gypsum roots,
from which flow
the dark sounds
of the spirit