He watches the sky and

does not watch the boats

that bask like beetles

on this liquid land,

because his eyes are

shut and seeing — his

hands, clasped like

tree roots, clinging

to the earth and each other.

He sees cliffs, with no houses

perched upon their rocks _(some_

_wild and jagged adolescence)_,

and how the waves crash

like paper planes against them,

untamed, but not evil.

A tuna's satin belly gleams

in the sun, immortalised

in crystal, though

death is coming.

Rocks start to weather,

and he doesn't mind.