Hornets flying low above the sea.
They’re coming in — by twos, by threes.
Where shall they shed the rage
that’s weighing on their wings?

On the narrow pier, a man appears.
He’s brought a bucket and scoops seawater inside.
Then he sinks back into his solitude
beneath an anchor-shaped cloud.

What use is that slippery water —
to pour onto the fireplace?
Its breath is dark, it weighs like mercury,
and leaves a bitter taste.

The boats are grieving, these buffaloes at noon,
their smooth flanks washed by waves in the bay,
as the sea curls up to die beneath the tetrapods
on its last summer day.

As if for one last time, I’m breathing in and out
the sharp and salty air.
Slow fish flicker in my brain,
fleeing the trawl nets they find there.