Epitaph

    Beyond the traceries of the auroras，

    The fires of tattered sea foam，

    The ghost-terrain of submerged icebergs；

    Beyond a cinder dome's black sands，

    Beyond peninsula and archipelago，

    Archipelago and far-flung islands，

    You have made of exile a homeland，

    Voyager， and of that chosen depth， a repose.

    The eel shimmers and the dogfish darts，

    A dance of crisscrosses and trespasses

    Through distillate glints and nacreous silts，

    And the sun， like fronds of royal palm

    Wind-torn， tossed， lashes upon the wake，

    But no lamplight mars or bleaches your realm，

    A dark of sediment， spawn， slough， and lees，

    Runoff， pitch-black， from the rivers of Psalms.