. . . To pound the cliffs Like a sea? The chronic repeats, Feeding rubble of chalk into the salt, Might only make tomorrow turn inland —
Away from dealing with the sense I want to make,
And all delighted dealing of my sense.
* I have much need of cool declension, Generation of things in regular form. Give me a word to meet my little speech —?
The sound swims back unbroken: back from you, To meet me, marking time with nails on level tables.