A grazing mace now treats the tongue
to a chanteuse roaming the bay
on salty shores, with shattered oars,
destined for self along the way.
She is a creature and a mind
of the day now reminding night:
Come as you have, drawn as the bath,
Moon. Silhouette sea in its flight.
By use of nail from God, here, up-
on etchéd paths in pearléd sands,
eternal cast down, lain to last,
light heavy in chateuse’s hand.