A vagueness comes over everything，
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable： the lighthouse
extinct， the islands' spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion； houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten； granite
subsumed， a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
Tactile
definition， however， has not been
totally banished： hanging
tassel by tassel， panicled
foxtail and needlegrass，
dropseed， furred hawkweed，
and last season's rose-hips
are vested in silenced
chimes of the finest，
clearest sea-crystal.
Opacity
opens up rooms， a showcase
for the hueless moonflower
corolla， as Georgia
O'Keefe might have seen it，
of foghorns； the nodding
campanula of bell buoys；
the ticking， linear
filigree of bird voices.