Memories are death vertebras. We watch for the hatching of our bones under the flesh. Soon night will be of clay. A closed fist on an impossible tit. Between us, trains stop, crashing their landscapes.
Slow rowers lose their memory between our fingers.
Sometimes, in edgeways, light birds are allowed to become words. The sea leaves the church with a ring of foam on its finger. The beach smokes a big cigar of Virginia sand. No one knows why the weather is so beautiful, nor what the sea dreams up. A shell whispers to one's ears that it is wrong that men should die.