Yellow in its fury, the fiery of tide
comes hissing down
A dome above us it roughly weaves
A tent, a shroud, then a restless tomb.
Seals, will say nothing,
and fish as unfathomable go,
This, I must say, before the sweet pyre
is lit:

Last dark, I sank in and clawed out
the gentle song of this sea.
Not a creature shall stir with voice,
as we, ghastly, love—

The town’s folks sleep on a heaviness
unknown to the night
Unknown to all, but your luring sway,
as tugged of strings;
the puppets, they lay—
Snoozed off to oblivion at the command of your hums.
Not a grain shall
mimic our melody,

Now with winds all harvested raw.

Yellow and grey, and blue
in its curious interruption, not this darkness,
nor that one, shall speak.

This pearl I say, that one then,
And a glitter-kissed sky we—

These marble walls, so soft their press
and smothering churn
Thirsty—so thirsty; a pink, dusky fire
it aches.
In I, her, through skin and flesh and vessel all;
Through lymph and blood, its quiet march.

Not a gnawing gust, no tossing tides
shall mimic
this black, black show—
This— Chords, with flicker,

with ash and plea,
with fight, with brutality,
So lovely, plucked.
—all is lulled to slumber.
All, with its sea and
yonder opened wide,

Bone to soot to pollen
to dust.
Settled, settled in us.

Red, then purple and green, the burn.
Then skin, then whites to a black, black show.
(Curtains drawn, and strings cut)
Its thirst quenched,

the sea,
leaves I, her
on its ashy bed.