This rusted anchor, left on the rocks, can’t anchor

anything anymore — small craft, boats — nothing;

only itself, not even that. The memory of the voyage

and the desire have dried up on it; it lets itself

to trust completely the relief of its wisdom (not its own)

in the silent workings of the rust that changes its

hardness into a blissful, endless, brown softness,

filing after filing on the sun-drenched sand where

the boys descent, at high noon, to swim.