Whatever the time of day, whether the sky is florescent,                   or fluorescent, or dissolving colorto impression, or I’m not tracking the sky, perhaps for once                   not inhabiting the subjunctive mood,whether with a beloved, whose face is turning away—no                   matter if I am in fact alone, on a beach,looking out toward the doctrine of horizon, there is                   always, in the dream, a wall of waterbefore me, impossible to outrun, azure, cruel, how                   beauty exists with no regard for goodness or the living,and if I’m inside, even if I cannot see that weather,                   I can feel it, eroding the floorboards, disintegratingreason, it is ceaseless. It has an appetite.