A Grave

Selected Poems (1935)

Man looking into the sea,taking the view from those who have as much right to it asyou have to yourself,it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,but you cannot stand in the middle of this;the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top,reserved as their contours, saying nothing;repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic ofthe sea;the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.There are others besides you who have worn that look—whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longerinvestigate themfor their bones have not lasted:men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they aredesecrating a grave,and row quickly away—the blades of the oarsmoving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there wereno such thing as death.The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under networks of foam,and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of theseaweed;the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-callsas heretofore—the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motionbeneath them;and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise ofbellbuoys,advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in whichdropped things are bound to sink—in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition norconsciousness.

“A Grave” From Selected Poems (1935)