In the Black Stone

 

Voices are different at night,

they travel through the darkness like boats on a black sea.

Inside the rocks I found on the beach last summer black and shining and smooth and wrinkled

live people with voices like that.

It's always night in their country

They swim in black water

talking back and forth in quiet voices 

They never have a comet there,

never a tree or a warm bed.

They turn without effort in the silken water

 Breathing gently in and out

Never chilly there, always kind and calm.

They have no telephones

in their tender darkness

No alarms

Ringing late at night

No fumbling towards death,

no plump wicked blaze of light

no ignorance, no agony, no regret.