Lays the gold sun tithing barren,
Of doubt and dark feeds the sea clouds;
Jack of frost’s fingers cold upon
The pots of fish- wagging shafted wind
On shapeless beaches; splits the wombs
Of tidal pools, dogdayed pulse of summer
Ringing out like a black-tongued bell.
The lame air leaping from its heat,
Now painting ice in the throat of a child,
Shall she be of nothing, shuddered voice
Drained of her words. Shut too, the water’s
Speeches, its salty voice now a thorny spire
Of frost; winter’s tongue punishes the seascape,
Dark-voweled gulls four winded spinning
Into the seaweeds’ iron, choked in the tides.
No longer the summer child, mussels dried
And dying in the pouch, in the grip of cold;
The sleepy man of winter travels the whale road,
Wave and froth choked, combed into a wreath;
Drowns the warmth, foreign to a weather.
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