The table silver survives in giant shoals
down deep where the Atlantic is black.
Midwinter
A blue light
is streaming out from my clothes.
Midwinter.
Jingling tambourines of ice.
I close my eyes.
There is a soundless world
there is a crack
where the dead
are smuggled over the border.
A Sketch from 1844
William Turner’s face is browned by weather;
he’s set up his easel far off in the breaking surf.
We follow the silver-green cable down into the depths.
He wades out in the long shallows of death’s kingdom.
A train rolls in. Come closer.
Rain, rain travels over us.