Sharp forest of oceanic pines,
a toxin that inflames giant seabirds
and drives them to the annihilating shores.
In the opening of the sea flower,
the awakening of the wounded whale
that cries beneath the sand,
and a pleasure that assaults a coast of disintegration,
a song of salt-invaded girls.
In the shell’s soft folds at your core,
the voice of the sea is unassailable.
What enters us overflows,
while the stones that vibrate in the surf
propel us toward the deeper ecstasy of loss.
We, the ones already marked for death,
find here the vessels of other lives.
open like an unreachable bud
in the still blue skin of the
Pale, silent, saying nothing,
yet somewhere once
a fierce energy,
a nebula of music,
which through the
that it took islands, diamonds,
oceans to rise up and die,
through all this,
you reach us only now.
Still, you reveal nothing to us,
while we chew ourselves
into mouthfuls of
hate and love and fragrance.
Now and then, some of us flare up,
some, just now, petering out,
for we too
revolve around our own
You, slow burning, linger long
until red death comes.
Do you envy us,
our short and brittle fuse,
the heat of our precocious days,
our exquisite elaboration
on a theme of life,
our insatiate coming and going,
while you only remain?