Configuring the shoreline was emptiness. What more

could there be? A crowd crying in joy, a flock of gulls

crying in deference? Then out of darkness the shore

emerged and there a crowd of silent skulls.

​

And what would elicit a cry from sullen skulls or joyful crowd

in a bleak hour before the dawn?  Death rowing with such skill,

his hand upon the tiller or hidden by the shroud,

while all the ocean lies flat and still?

​

No greater beauty has ever lived. None ever will.

No face can ever match the loveliness that

was cast in sheer perfection by divine skill,

drawing me to the shore to beach my boat in the sand.