Posthumously published

Posthumously published (1929)

A man adrift on a slim sparA horizon smaller than the rim of a bottleTented waves rearing lashy dark pointsThe near whine of froth in circles.God is cold.The incessant raise and swing of the seaAnd growl after growl of crestThe sinkings, green, seething, endlessThe upheaval half-completed.God is cold.The seas are in the hollow of The Hand;Oceans may be turned to a sprayRaining down through the starsBecause of a gesture of pity toward a babe.Oceans may become grey ashes,Die with a long moan and a roarAmid the tumult of the fishesAnd the cries of the ships,Because The Hand beckons the mice.A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin’s cap,Inky, surging tumultsA reeling, drunken sky and no skyA pale had sliding from a polished spar.God is cold.The puff of a coat imprisoning air.A face kissing the water-deathA weary slow sway of a lost handAnd the sea, the moving sea, the sea.God is cold.