in a country
far across the foam
he revels in the respect
he’d written off at home
once the mask is off
and laid to rest
we move
here in the stillness
within the vision before us
unable yet to hear the words
in sandscape nightmares
he wanders off half-clothed
to the skeleton gate
that waits the steps he loathes
stopped at port
for a stay
where all the words
may never last
another day
collecting the words
that travel between the thoughts
he never could exchange
gray eye
in the black of night—
watching us, unfeeling
as if we were already
at one with those undead
washed ashore
he bathes in the song
of the circling wolves
morning bird
yellow-green upon
my window pane—
when all is silent
you wake the dead
discordant strings—
she sits there silent
while the words
still linger in the air