On an Unwritten Letter

It is for a swarm of dawns, for a few

stands on which the fleece of life

might snag and entwine into hours and years

that today their pairs of dolphins

caper with their young? Oh let me

hear nothing of you, flee the flash

of your lashes. There’s far more on earth.

I can no more disappear

than show myself again; the night’s vermilion

forge is stalling, evening drags on,

prayer is torment and the bottle

has yet to reach you among the rocks

that climb out of the sea. The empty wave

breaks on the point, at Finisterre.