midnight never falls at midnight
the song too.
A letter darkness
A troubled hindrance.
Wind pours its verdigris
I choose its parceled
A discontent settling.
A tattered, insisting
configuration with all
its devotions gone—
all the dialectics and names—
in shallow evaporation.
day and night
caught in the rock and pitch
past grief and its lack.
railing through absolute
and unturned waves.
No minor wind.
in the graven sleep
Then, an inscription on the catastrophe.
Late shade and ash in the day telling
of an obverse name spelled out in air.
(We were there, in its scarce elaboration,
one vowel darker than another.)
On the beach, I hear a blunt edge
of wind and waves in brief convolution,
their axial dominions of symmetry
and brittle shell mouthing the closed
syllables of earth’s continents—
a volcano’s deep echo from a boat’s keel—