Cicadas
are going home
Fireflies
smile goodnight
There
is the fishingboat plosh of the sea
The
yellow chink of ships' lamps
Then
blackness
Now
if you angle at land's end
In
the torpid waters
You
will brush the feelers of blind fish
On
the shore
Where
crabs are kings
and
hermits
run
the tide
You
can smell caustic lives under the sand
The
wet ruins of their homes
Consecrated
to the crows the rocks
In
these silhouettes
Clusters
of eyes are envying
The
sand is breeding
As
you walk
And
the contours of hate
Grind
between your toes.
Dark
is the eel that has your hand
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