The night sea’s broken forms,
its long torn hush,
erase every recent trace
like wind to dust.

In the scrublight, another’s
sharp footprints mix
with black sand, the tide’s scrawl
over weeds and sticks.

My voice going out has nothing
new to say, no slight
shock of self to lend
a world hammered soft tonight.

Teach me not to love
the flattery of foam
and salt. Teach me, soon, to learn
I have nothing of my own.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 3 Number 9, on page 40
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