If we forget this kindness in winter
that is fine for it still remains. Springtime
persists. The new moon bulbs rise, no longer
held down by the mayhem of the night. Slime,
pulp and blood of a different kind birth;
the realm where there is no mercy. Nothing
can be reborn at this depth. With no earth
or prayer; where do the souls of those drowning
alone at sea go? Who will call for them?
Who will remember? These seasons, solstice,
new moons fix nothing. Love, where do you lie?
I will find you, raise you from this mayhem,
little fish, stillborn — — It was no kindness
when the sea washed clean your death-clouded eyes.