– unable to get from the underneath side of
the stones
that flank the sand, the body: blown

from every direction, into like a conch shell

where the echo of excess        emotion      enraptures

the chamber

where once was a body willing to die inside of, longing to – this
is the obsession, this hour

of philosophy, this transatlantic voyage
spread on the page
like an oil spill, the blue-and-black

arsenal of water whispering, inevitably, as if

it were in a wind: was it worth it? Worth.