My love’s eyes are red as the sargasso
With lights behinds the iris like a cephalopod’s.
The weeds move slowly. November’s diatoms
Stain the soft stagnant belly of the sea.
Mountains, atolls, coral reefs,
Do you desire me? Am I among the jellyfish of your griefs?
I comb my sorrows singing: any doomed sailor can hear
The rising and falling bell and begin to wish
For home. There is no choice among the voices
Of Love. Even a carp sings.