Walk by the shore, it is
a cool image, of water
a bearing into certain
distinctions, as
the stretch, out there
the temple of which way
he goes; and cannot shake
the haze, from
a list of small
flames.
He wants
only the patient ebb, as
following the shore: that's
not honest, but where
his foot prints and
marks his track
in the fact of
the evening
the path where he grabs at
motion, like a moist plant
or the worth, of
hearing the tide come in.
Walk on it, being a line, of rest
and distinction, a hope now lived up
to, a coast in awkward
singular desires
thigh-bone of the
world