This silver light could dissolve everythinginto one substance. Already the bordersof sand and ocean and air are unclear,
I wonder what Spanish poets would say about this,Bloodless, mid-August meridian,Afternoon like a sucked-out, transparent insect shell,Diffused, and tough to the touch.Something about a labial, probably, something about the blue.
It is an old drama this disappearance of the leaves, this seeming death of the landscape.
The poem that argues successfully against deathfinds its place in the book you can buyin stores that do not sell poetry.