He watches the sky and

does not watch the boats

that bask like beetles

on this liquid land,

because his eyes are

shut and seeing — his

hands, clasped like

tree roots, clinging

to the earth and each other.

He sees cliffs, with no houses

perched upon their rocks (some

wild and jagged adolescence),

and how the waves crash

like paper planes against them,

untamed, but not evil.

A tuna's satin belly gleams

in the sun, immortalised

in crystal, though

death is coming.

Rocks start to weather,

and he doesn't mind.