Sunday, July 31, 2011


The scull is hopeless: It hews at the jade hills of seawater, is
Kissed by the white girls of light--as indifferent
To the oarsman's wishes as it is
To the calculations of his sculpted path.

Each might sing with her voice. Each, like a faint, cleaned-out shell--

Like a beach-foisted whale might, after her sublime fact,

Be joked about.

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