The shoal rocks with the sea.
I, living, still abide
The incommensurate dread
Of being, being away
From one comely head.


Thought upon thought can be
A burden to the soul.
Who knows the end of it all?
When I pause to talk to a stone,
The dew draws near.


I sing the wind around
And hear myself return
To nothingness, alone.
The loneliest thing I know
Is my own mind at play.


Is she the all of light?
I sniff the darkening air
And listen to my own feet.
A storm’s increasing where
The winds and waters meet.

This Issue

October 17, 1963