The place where sailors-though now exhibit to all professions-went to consider the mirage of their be in possession of despair.

The place where sailors-though now exhibit

to all professions-went to consider the mirage

of their be in possession of despair. Once, only sailors could

go there: the breezeles place,

the weed-choked and stinking sea-plain

where They stalled for weeks, month Today,

the clime comes to us,

its great gray inertness dragged

like opaque knife-wounds above each

who stands upon a shore and calls it in,

dragged across him or her who believes his or her despair is

a mirage and not

a mirror... That man

who still grasps the handle of the mailbox unclose its huge black mouth

having just swallowed

a verbal expression that cannot be unwritten.

It falls upon the top of a pile of other like letters

in their white dresse

in the dark-that man has called it in.

There is a unbroken of tiny roots being torn,

and a water spider, skating flatteringly over the Zone's flat surface, sinks.

...

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