The bed, the bed is empty.
The harbour has no ship.
They are in the grave, the grave.
Death clogs the harbour.
We shall have to dredge.
What shall we bring up?
More death.
He gave himself to her,
She was the water.
They clogged the water with their death.
The white gown black.
The white shirt flayed.
The white face black.
We, we have to dredge.
Fire and water, that do not mix.
The clouds go up, that never reach the sun.
In the water, softness,
Garland and gown,
Wormwood and sage, floating.
Her skirt smelled of goats
In the peaty blackness.
It went with the water
Layer on layer.
He’s beached in his harbour
Like a black cinder
A chair’s breadth beneath her.
They did love, and each other,
From fire sprung the water
Hissing they were not initiated, not in this book.
We dredged; now she floats
A mite nearer the sun, the moon,
But not brimming, as clouds brim
With moonlight, as a kind of messenger,
But like the moon, in dark floating
And always above him.
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