Alone on the beach,
Brine sticking to flesh and hair,
Seche sur mes yeux gris
With measured shadow he paces between window and door,
Back and forth through past and future, heaven and hell,
Across the myriad and parallel chasms of the pegged floor.
With clouded eye he gropes the frescoed wall,
Painted, it seemed, in layers of his troubled past,
Webbed in his soul’s dimmest recess.
His ears bend toward the swish of the sheers’ ethereal glow,
The sun’s pale impression struggling toward the cracked black register.
His breath hangs heavy from his nostrils, and struggles to return.
The fate he beholds, a cold black glove in warm air’s midst;
Heavy like winter’s hail, it presses upon drooped chest.
Frigid Doom, with hoary ice-grips, jerks his head
Round toward the underworld’s crimson glow, his underworld,
Tangled in weeping thorns, deep in the stinking ash of his burnt-out soul.