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A Span of Sea This day as a nameless as a span of sea Arrives in continents of fog Low under a guise of daytime Over Nigh Duck and shoal and bog. It would seem that this were gladly all, Place without place, horizon nor wish, Finality unowned as the lichened rock, As casual as the bleached bones of fish. But the tips of spruce are flames Lit on an ashen yesterday, or last year. We scan the sky for the glassy spot Where the sun is most likely to appear. Being hunted always by otherness: North recalling south, [[strike through]] wide sea its edge. The sounds of the world break in the bay, And continents come to rest upon a ledge.