Where the waves, rabid, rushed the shore
and sunk their teeth ever deeper.
Where the clouds roared above, aloft
on brickblunt cuttooth whipping winds.
He thought some law he could deduce
might make legible this spectral body
of words, like murmurs, part sound part silence
in messy shreds, discarded out of order
that filled and drained his inner half,
screamed softly nonsense nursery rhymes
as if were wisdom.

As if he could hold them, a pile upon the palm,
dump across a desk, paste together
with tweezers, precise, archeologist
of echos who sets his remasterpiece
in a box, glass, open and willing,
perfect from all sides.

When here it only gave rocks
and clumsy numb dumb fingertips
too slowly scratching, fumbling after
loose bits of word, little sound scraps
snatched up again by impatient gusts.

Returned to the sky
where they belong.

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