Wind starts its function, and its sadness.
The compass staggers around edges.
The coast waits along its whipping walls.
My thoughts delay horizons.
The reef is sorry, the sand extravagant.
Other times are now confused.
Your laughter and its refreshment, o those matrices!
There’s no holding to account.
Is this my method that hammers
the distant rectangle of the separated?
These facts disturbing coolness, exaggerating
a certain way that does not make more.
Movement marries the smoky dolor
of the gyre, the extremity of years.
In sad inquest, tonight clusters thought.
Whale surface, south wind, a rogue swell.
That no-one will recall again these rocks
those times, the tides and agitation
of crevices and wings, the stretched jouissance.
What unravels the remain.