The Wine-Dark Sea (II)

Blank here, grass-cracked

& babbling parking lots.

Nothing moves

to cross the day.

Please, one thing

simply reap a meaning.

This new accent dares

of burnt skin:

call it stammering,

call it self.

To say its name

takes so much mouth

& all I know to say

satiates.

Toward is true,

neverleave is true

as are the willow threads

the suns shed.