I.
So long do I study burning sand in my flameproof palm yet 
certainly I know it must slip through prodigal fingers.
Through floors of taverns 
and the centre of the world as easy.
And the gate between two stars; 
the void blowing shining galaxies apart.
So far, it will be true at last- none of this ever was.

II.
Clear streams chime on smoothed rock.
Hidden birds proclaim blessed existence.

I'll  consider by turns these green places.
For a fateful cup drawn from a boundless ocean 
narrows most drastically all I can thirst for.

A dreadful cacophany of oceanless sailors
attacks as a disease all seaworthy music.
And I, fit to discern outrages against symphonie,
have plugged my ears. 

Voices collide in the head
-this is the third this second-
if I forget all but one, forget my fellow travellers,
I'm found at the edge of an ocean of consequences
dedicated to all of them.

III.
Reiterations of dying waves
accompany me
the sound forever in a shell.
Susurrar they say, to invoke the sense
of hypnotic lullaby.
On a reason good enough eyes spring open
searching for the unlikeliest change.