The solstice drives a change of weather.
Frost sears the cape, in patterns
of snapped stars and carcass moonlight,
in the boat I made from fingernails of the dead
and zero in these islands.
Just breath in speaking clouds the panes,
rubbed clear to Bible-atlas cliffs beyond.
This scratch-mark quote,
its icy cursive on the glass, disproves
love’s physics and resolve— the change of weather,
on grey sand the waves’ grey subterfuge, some passing
present tense, lost among the breakers.