Beyond the traceries of the auroras，
The fires of tattered sea foam，
The ghost-terrain of submerged icebergs；
Beyond a cinder dome's black sands，
Beyond peninsula and archipelago，
Archipelago and far-flung islands，
You have made of exile a homeland，
Voyager， and of that chosen depth， a repose.
The eel shimmers and the dogfish darts，
A dance of crisscrosses and trespasses
Through distillate glints and nacreous silts，
And the sun， like fronds of royal palm
Wind-torn， tossed， lashes upon the wake，
But no lamplight mars or bleaches your realm，
A dark of sediment， spawn， slough， and lees，
Runoff， pitch-black， from the rivers of Psalms.