Sea shell sings its whispers. Who knows how
but an ear.
Good music. To where, to how, who knows but
spring ear. It's the sort of song
one tries
not quite
to go to bed with; but before the eye closes there
is the ear. Warm sounds but
water is cold. So late,
so soon, and here. Bottle it. Throw it back.
Throw it. In your hands, a remaining. There, singing
as stone. It keeps itself. Rain for many
years keeps it
going
and it goes
as a palm with its old shape after the fact,
the throwing, the song the song the song the song. Thank you.