Autumn 1951 • Vol. XIII No. 4 Poetry |

Volutes

All day, its guns saluting in our ears, the turquoise water pounded purple rocks, beaten like tall drums. Fasten the years, ah, batten them down fast, the pounding years that like these waves attack us, make us roar within the hollows of our brain, she said. She sat, a figurehead—fixed in gold the light fingered (so piracy will fondle spoil)— that time's wormholes will groove. Yes, you are right, quite right to talk of voyaging out of sight beyond the close inflections of the shore, the idolatry of almanacs, she said. And took within a hand of gold seashells that rambled whispering along the strand and held them up, laughing. See, such farewells as these, these white indelicacies of shells, time treats pink bodies to—this talc, before disintegrations on the shore, she said. Then flung them in an arc upon the wind. They whistled: one might have imagined them in pain, but that they were mere rattling rind- skeletons of the sea. In those volutes, mind does

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All day, its guns saluting in our ears, the turquoise water pounded purple rocks, beaten like tall drums. Fasten the years, ah, batten them down fast, the pounding years that […]

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All day, its guns saluting in our ears, the turquoise water pounded purple rocks, beaten like tall drums. Fasten the years, ah, batten them down fast, the pounding years that […]

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