Brace's Rock
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These are the last days.
The big rock is never asleep, only dreaming.
The cove ebbs into the Atlantic.

Luminous and grand, the continent
is a vast sick room
clarified by fever. I frame

sky and water with tendrils of black rockweed.
I make every leaf golden
against the pink granite.

A figure in the foreground provides scale:
the keel bones of a fishing boat––
washing into sand.

Such radiance––
pouring down from the pure dome of possibility
rinsing the broken world clean.