10

"Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof."

Seed-carriers are we: ephemera
Cast up on the shore of this earth
As our birth is dragged out to sea.
Spume of man, of froth, on sand.
A shape that falls off behind,
Thirsting at the air, integral
Of nothing, but simply there
like a shed, white snakeskin.

If death is becoming
What living future can there be?
Only the tide and its fruit
And the high chambers of the sea.