Æolian Naufrage.

How silent are the currents closest to the silt:
Water blows through in funnellets, uncharted,
Undesigned; here, in a green humor is spilt
The quick bass milt, & here are leaves of sea-moss twined,
Hedging planks of flotsam to aquatic shrubbery.

In the stateroom, a clarinet rolls between
Bolted chairlegs, its ebony a bone, its marrow
A sea-sparked set of nodes; here strange plankton brush
Through reeds & pluck
The blue, the red lines of a harp: endless
Lute of a driven tide. Alone in your narrow roilings,
Plumb the compass of dead luck through organs rich
In pliant solubility; for your chorus is mute, and
Your movement—below sharp waves—is deeper than sound.