Nor howling fits will grieve me nothing!
The past abyss nothing! the western stars
Split, and hardest company for nights
I tread, and trove the day, and wait, and dread
The dim unfolding vastness. . . frigid dreams
Of empty space; bulk waves that thread
The truss and turn of tide, where wreaths of sky
Shatter, slide down, and sigh
On thousand broken strides, that
lurch
abed
What little hopes we spread. . .
2018