A WORLD THAT CONSTANTLY BURNS
Is it a foghorn or the wind's Drone-monotone through a barely open Sliding door? What is this kindly view for? The waves slide out from nowhere in the dew: No horizon. No slow ships from Hamburg Süd. This powerful narcotic compounded for you -- Flat, pastel, gently pulsing day and night The tidal foam a self-abasing white And nothing there to break a terrace nap And nothing there to take your thoughts, and tap Their shoulders toward the useless and the old. Dead passions; thoughts of the dead; all gone cold While you lie temperate and unconcerned About the super-earth light years away: "A world that constantly burns."