This is the sea with its wind whistle, a great obeyance.
Black knotted seaweed hugs my grudge,
I trudge off down the shore as gray storm clouds stoop
From the sky and wet the wall of my existence.

Blind is my smile, empty as the eyes of a blind pianist.
Coldly and soberly, I am lame in a memory
Like a dying tree in an old size
Waving and crutchless, weeping in a wood.

The stone tide ebbs, sucking me in its powdery beak.
Rises so whitely, buffeting my jaw until it was numb;
The washed sheets of my clothes coffin into a
Garbage of shells, all at once razor clams and weedy mussels.

The rim of a last wave sucks me to an undertow,
Stiffened into a rib of sand, pocked white skin,
Glassfuls of salt drowning my tongue;
I acquire air, nobody sees me. I lie beneath the