The Sun a Sea, the Stones a Grove of Sailors
The stones are crying, sun-drenched;
Their gaping mouths follow you as you pass.
The sunlight pools in hollows,
fills them up, drowns stones like crippled birds.
This incandescent sea's a mirror for detective work,
in which hard-boiled investigation engenders crime,
and each grotto dreams of a new murder,
hideous and unrequited.
Vertigo claims me; I tumble into auric pools
where the pallid corpses of stones
recite sonnets not yet penned,
and where new fish are born, hot and glittering.
You don't see these fish,
you feel them ... they pass right through you,
and you become the seaweed
undulating softly in a brilliant new ocean.