1
A sooty gull
A weathered hull
An empty beach
Dusk
2
Deep heat seeps
into everything marine,
as if even
the sea wants to burn
itself pure again.
3
I lay in bed unable to write,
a cool damp towel upon my chest.
Here above the water
I've sprinkled dry plant soil with cinnamon,
see it caught in the finest nets.
Poor thirsty spiders!
4
I go out
onto
the terrace
into
the grey evening air
where,
stooping,
I scrape dry soil
from the roof's
rain troughs,
hope.
