In the rough loneliness of salinity,

amid the muscly movement of the oceans

habituated only by silence,

life was getting itself ready

like colors get ready in a beam of light.

Life in the viscera of the granite and atmosphere

life in the wounded undergarments of sleep

life in the ash, under the snow

and Death,

there in the middle, erect, manly,

with his unshaven Byzantine face,

a pause that re-connects motion

a very well-made boot that exhausts

the limits of warmth

the garment that wraps the frozen shadow of the moon

the table that life prepares for its supper

the metal at the leaf’s edge at the edge of the forest.

The wave whooshes in springs and springs,

amid wild beasts, in gatherings and

in hugging, in graves and graves, in casseroles.

One wave cries, another searches, undresses you;

the wave undresses, digs up bones of petrified light,

inverts death, widens life, wounds it,

empowers it — but what it looks for?

Where’s the wave headed? Where’re we headed?

Where’re we headed?

We march on.

And, oh sky, you saw the world enlarging amid

the endless recycling of life and death

you saw man growing taller

you, that saw all the tortured

all the hunted

don’t forget:

Victory stands

beyond the moans.

And this little life of ours

can’t accept death. ­­