he was far out on an old tin
with desolating winds
and no name
to be heard

you can see how our names
had drowned him
who, past doubting spray,
groomed resurrected hope
like bearded sage

juno strode with each returning tide,
but now she has gone forth,
an ancient bell

the other night he saw
a thing so close against his world,
mildly in its place, surely,
with its thousand inlets

more than his name
or prideful poverty

hands