The boats are coming in, thick
through this sea-saw of night;
Their anchors almost made of money
as they scrape the ocean floor.
There's such a finish on the scene
and the details we're glossing over
white wax on the window sill
the slow, slippage of confusion simply
waiting to perceive these lightened waves
powerful green lamps
leaving no place for a lover to hide out there.
And her roar is exhausting
raining life itself on the wet battlements
of so many
well-laid stones going round and round.