Like a distant sky, receding, 

Farther, farther, in the sea,

Or the dim line of the horizon, bleeding

Rain down from infinity, 


Or that island out there, never less and never more,

Or the water, always coming, always leaving,

Never satisfied with shore,

So my sun is always grieving


For the final beach of fall,

For the evening’s, or the season’s end,

For some reason to forestall

The waves, in their futile rush to bend


The world onto its continental shelf,

As difficult to fit into the puzzle as myself.