STILLNESS            


Cicadas are going home

Fireflies smile goodnight


There is the fishingboat plosh of the sea

The yellow chink of ships' lamps


Then blackness


Now if you angle at land's end

In the torpid waters

You will brush the feelers of blind fish


On the shore

Where crabs are kings

              and hermits

run the tide


You can smell caustic lives under the sand

The wet ruins of their homes

Consecrated to the crows the rocks


                   In these silhouettes

Clusters of eyes are envying

The sand is breeding

                As you walk

And the contours of hate

Grind between your toes.


Dark is the eel that has your hand