1.

Off to the left, those islands, named and renamed so many times now everyone's forgotten their names, are sleeping.

Pale rods of light, the morning's implements, lie in among them tarnishing already, just like our knives and forks.

Because we live at your open mouth, oh Sea, with your cold breath blowing warm, your warm breath cold, like in the fairy tale.

Not only do you tarnish our knives and forks

• regularly the silver coffee-pot goes into dark, rainbow-edged eclipse;

the windows blur and mirrors are wet to touch. Custodia complains, and then you frizz her straightened, stiffened hair.

Sometimes you embolden, sometimes bore. You smell of codfish and old rain. Homesick, the salt weeps in the salt-cellars.

Breathe in. Breathe out. We're so accustomed to those sounds we only hear them in the night. Then they come closer

but you keep your distance.

It's growing lighter. On the beach two men get up from shallow, newspaper-lined graves. A third sleeps on. His coverlet

is corrugated paper, a flattened box. One running dog, two early bathers, stop dead in their tracks; detour.

Wisps of fresh green stick to your foaming lips like those on horses' lips. The sand's bestrewn: white lilies, broken stalks,

white candles with wet, blackened wicks, and green glass bottles for white alcohol meant for the goddess meant to come last night.

(But you've emptied them all.)

Perhaps she came, at that. It was so clear! And you were keeping quiet: roughened, greeny-black, scaly

as one of those corroded old bronze mirrors in all the world's museums (How did the ancients ever see anything in them?)

incapable of reflecting even the biggest stars. One cluster, bright, astringent as white currants, hung from the Magellanic Clouds

above you and the beach and its assorted lovers and worshippers, almost within their reach if they had noticed.

The candles flickered. Worshippers, in white, holding hands, singing, walked in to you waist-deep. The lovers lay in the sand, embraced.

Far out, saffron flares of five invisible fishing boats wobbled and hitched along, farther than the stars,

weaker, and older.

But for now the sun. Slowly, reluctantly, you're letting go of it; it slowly rises; metallic; two-dimensional.

You sigh, and sigh again. We live at your open mouth, with your cold breath blowing warm, your warm breath cold like in the fairy tale

no - the legend.

I think the following prayer, perhaps falsely attributed to St. Francis, can be pictorially shown as the sky above, i.e., sky as peace. The photo is a slice of a photo I took on an afternoon a few weeks ago

Lord make me an instrument of your peace Where there is hatred, Let me sow love; Where there is injury, pardon; Where there is error, truth; Where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope; Where there is darkness, light; And where there is sadness, Joy.

O Divine Master grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled
As to console;
To be understood,as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.