583

582

581
There is an organic softness in this skin
Smooth in its smallness.
Writ large it is invisible,
A ghost of a sea
Itself ghost and on,
As mirrors counterviewed.
But it rises here in the indolent
Observer's frame, palm
To kindred groove.

580

579
On a bed of razor edged
Grass we draw red thin lines
As our angels.
As ice burns the fine
Slivers, a notable
Passage marked
In a sedulous heart.
The dune slopes up, just so, green dressed
And held. The partner sea is there.

578

577

576

575

574
An hour's addition to the unfated
Measure: a blue market
Square awned and cinnamon
Cries of routine contending joy.
The wine is tart and bitter
A part of this short allowance
Here; your dark eye, this loaf,
That net sea fragrant.
We must smile for the air, the sun,
Our imbricated loss,
The meet hazard of the stone,
The strutting birds aimless
In their span's aim. And the hour, all, done.

573

572

571

570

569

568
These are slow seizings of the air,
Or slips into it as silk
Flame, in hours unmoved
Rampant hesitant,
As troubled memory unfolding.
At dawn still: a larger smallness in the tree.

567

566

565

564