There are few cliffs here but the largess of cold hours.
Lightness of breath maintains the western skies.
Winter, painters, this marble path . . .
What else calls to a carpet of bees, and burnt air?
Child of the wind-honored Yucatan, the sea’s feet
are your unhappy exhibition. The prospecting pictures
grow, but gravity grows too, steep as blue
sea-salt, red as the gummed grass of wildflowers.
MARCH 2008