We are scattered by the wind, like a whisper, till other winds come for us. One feels them blowing in stillness. North is south and east is also south. The ringlets of the sea fizzle like fake foam in the mouth. I forget the color of her eyes. But not the rough music of her hands and feet. Neap tide sends me back into the house where we sleep in the stairs. It is too close in here. Up in the basement we have the privacy of children. We dimly perceive that the world of adults is a game they have forgotten we are playing. But the play is at its most intense when it is they who are forgotten. The way a painter captures a white muslin skirt that eclipses the persons in the portrait. There it was, all along, a window, sweeter than water, her wet scent. Future days are a calendar of white cliffs, as the sky is smeared by the galloping winds. The past is a blizzard in the face. Other forces are called for. It is the pleasure of perceiving angels walking home from work, that and their musical speech, which brings me on this new plateau where the city’s trees go up in the flames of an early spring. Thus my unhappiness rests incomplete.