The dance of lights is urgent in the waters
under my wet feet,
foam and salt licking the wounds.
On the gnarled branch the bird sings.
Bring on each note some adage
that sort of rare suspicion.
Induces my colors, takes me away
he puts the whim of the wind between his fingers,
dark density of the advancing sea.
Pour the loneliness on my white chest
and then shut up, shut up
like a thread of ink that breaks.