What makes the stars so violent

At the heart of a typhoon,

When the beaches are so silent

Inside the pale lagoon,


If not the rage and ruin outside

Their center? Such crashing grief,

Lulled for now to tide 

On a distant tumbling reef,


Folding in the vortex 

Of the boiling, spinning world,

Is the latent grinning cortex

Waiting to be hurled


At sleeping bougainvillea,

Covered now in night,

Far away from the idea

Of lurching, raving blight


Swirling planets in its breath,

Drowning skies in sounds,

Dashing ocean winds to death

On the whirlpool grounds


Of whitewashed wall and wake.

Moon-lashed clouds above our

Hanging garden weave and quake,

Like that distant bobbing star,


The standing sheet of mid-sea surge,

Churned like me by doubt,

Whose continents submerge

As its clouds flicker and go out:


Moon blown, bone worn,

As homeless as the deep,

Lovelorn, wave-torn,

Bow against the sweep,


Windgall, landfall,

Sun against the sea,

Seawall, day fall

Come at last to me


In the middle of the storm

Where holes their polar hopes appoint,

As summer keeps them briedly warm

And sea surrounds its distant point.