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.