The channel is shaded blue.
Of delicate phrases
spiked with white stains,
as though awaiting the presence of noise.
The base of the cliffs seems formed
to a topography of will.
Local, severe, marked by a decrease
at the top of the skull.
This, its harness and its trademark.
It lies on the eastern flank
as you turn again towards the sea,
it lies beneath a bobcat’s drugged gaze.
You sense unevenness,
as of chalk, or slate.
The radio is tuned to an Abyssinian
song, the vocals a tinny rage,
streaming outwards to be lost in wind.
A sudden swell
deforms the image on the waves,
an owl, a spotted horse, a tossing boat.
There is a window in the house
that, when opened, seems to look out on time.
The white trees, bracing the sudden
crossing from time to time.