I live by the sea.
There the heart halts ever more slowly,
Gulls drift onto seaweed and jellyfish.
But I’ve drawn the curtains on the room,
I didn’t want to see the sunrise.
The flaking plaster will stand in its place,
On the water opposite, as the sun looks into my eyes.
This season is a slow one for death.
Someone inside me beats a clapper,
But the bells ring distant.
Look at the shore. I can remember, how I’d jog out every morning,
Wanting to believe it’s not so deep.
And the low-tide would help me lie,
Such a load of questions left unanswered,
But before the end I’m searching the word for high-tide.
This strip of coast is a hollow echoing bell,
The curtain is quite the opposite:
It can never hide the room.
Long shadows like exclamation points,
the waves are hauling something.
Like the sound of seagulls in the morning,
Now then come closer:
this here’s my bed.
So many hearts were here yet now it’s empty, like a lake.
Were it salty you could call it sea,
But I haven’t any tears to hold back.
I loved too. And there’s always the present tense,
But isn’t this human side ridiculously touching.
Don’t take me seriously.
Just look at my bed.
The salt dried onto the frame.
Like flaking plaster, dropping leaves or snow,
All who wish to see it burn away.
At least God could lie a little,
Saying the Monsoon actually exists.