Like the distant sky, receding, 

Farther, farther, in the sea,

Or the 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


From the final beach of fall,

For the season’s roar,

For some reason to forestall

The waves in their rush to store


The world on their continental shelf,

As hard to fit into the puzzle as myself.