When the sea allowed, boats returned slowed by blood and blubber. In the yard, pride outlasts skin. I count nineteen stones without dates. At night I sleep listening with the window open to the fog bell lolling its tongue about. 4 Wind stills.
Trees grapple over graves that catch the sap.
Cats bristle at corners of the old house and scratch their claws into hardwood. A small shadow follows morning through to sea while yacht flags clap like gulls passing each day the first steps to the yard. Rotting yawls are poems out to tide. In my room silver sheers the mirror, looks like dark rain. I've no space in me for fog.