Then the spare melancholy

of a wharf toward winter: the island

opening the long view South

the wuthering of gunfire on wind
Safe in this cold anchorage

you can’t hear all the cries

you can’t hear all the gnashing

you can’t hear, can’t hear again
The Island of No is beautiful

grabbing its own to its own

beautiful at cutting the waters

and repeating the patterns, repeating
the patterns, its blow-hards scraping

the fronds from the crevices under the wharf

toward winter, the waves draining

out to the long view South…
The Island, its stealers-away

taking the light by force,

leaves the waves to die

singing of gunfire on wind.