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31 Seapiece Standing, as the nightspray starts, On the stone shore, the slate shore, You can too clearly hear The dark thematic rush of the waves’ withdrawal. It is no sound to cradle you, No lowtide hush and flux Snuffling from the sand. This coming in, this mad drag and drain, This endless hectoring of rocks Like hammerbrunts from a prisoner condemned To life for death, Breath pouring heavy with each stroke— Who could, for long, listen To such exhausted labor, or take ease in The heave and retreat of water at its work? Not even the moon can soothe you, Its white sweep spread down the deeper calm Not like a bridal train, but as the slow Shine of snails on a wet walkway. And with the black surf Frothing at your feet, and the fog Rising like a sickroom vapor, You step back Inside yourself, and hear your heart Surge like the searoar in a shell Picked clean, blood-echoes Breaking through the ruin, the dry spiral Where all thinking ends in salt. ...

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