The sea can't help it,
her passion is like labour;
he backs off from her outbursts,
pursues her second thoughts.
He leaves of his existence
the fleeting cuneiform,
in crooked running lines,
nearly quatrains.
And by her forthright mopping
they are wiped out.
All traces of his scampering
must disappear, as if his instinct
to live on, unemphatically
got it wrong.
