The Wine-Dark Sea (II)
Blank here, grass-cracked
& babbling parking lots.
Nothing moves
to cross the day.
Please, one thing
simply reap a meaning.
This new accent dares
of burnt skin:
call it stammering,
call it self.
To say its name
takes so much mouth
& all I know to say
satiates.
Toward is true,
neverleave is true
as are the willow threads
the suns shed. 