The distant rote of granite shoals, sullen, like a
Mystagogue, worshiper of the white haired,
White bearded waves, waits and watches for
The sea-yard god; what is a god, a god is unison.
In pots, the smell of salt, powder for sails, autumn
Dust winder; the season rages into what it reaches-
The fish, the whale’s backbone, the shore, it tosses
The broken oar and the dead men. The sea howl
And the tolling bell, it measures time rung by the
Tide swell. Time counted by anxious worried women
Lying in black veils, lying awake, unweaving wedding
Gowns to piece together the past and the future;
Calloused, withered hands patient to some degree,
Keeping their rages, dwellers in death; unpropitiated
Prayers reaching to the sea’s edge, the torn whitecapped
Waves, the shattered voices; salt is on the black roses.
Waves swell and the grained face sand ages in tidal pools,
Deep among the mussels and shoulders of the sea; the salt
Air breathes the water, untamed, a conveyor of souls. That is
What is remembered. That is and was from the beginning.
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