After the storm, the stars in the night twinkle

in the sky, and the tanned burn on leather jacket

wrapping your body up with heat radiated warmth,

cold, feverish and falling fruits of the schooner's flight.

Things must fall, in the end of next Venus fly

whereas Mars march forward as the world turns down,

in the island of stars and galaxies, I must stop talking

to work and read, in the mediocre light— colonel of words cry.

Waste no compassion in silent policy, "O but you must separate

the dead to the white child bed," And the deck turns bright,

Moon pales in white, the clouds taking as a door,

the light over there, glides to take home.

Over the dunes, of her heaving— his heart's drumming,

so much pain, so much rain; always a step one

to the next mountain fumes, she sings and folds

the olds, my poems: turning her pages of thunder in the crash piles.

I cannot but write the old wrongs, waves of horizon

return with rusty tongue, gulls screech above the beached—

they're a tale of sickled moon, withering again in the blank page

Light appears in different ashpit,

indifference of different fire pits.

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