light breakdances
   seascape as wave labour
     on no man's end.

there is defeat in common grasp.
  what shall we do to keep our
  hearts from breaking?

  to make tractable the creature
  or to cast tacit upon stone
   a noisome mutiny of cicada.

this is where no words shatter.
this is where no fool's beginning
is the end of men in sheer wonder.
this is where we stop our
hearts and deny them of their
    pains:
when the moon plunges deep
  and breaks into a song of star,
through trail of air,
    the morning - all friction
      yet no sound, shouts
heavy without artillery: frangere.