In white curvature
a string of purple hearts
rattling like tin beads.

Shards of the shoreline
glinting like fins
and sharpened blades
horizon wincing at the cracked lens
where light flees upward
in buckets.

Turf of the clenched blood poles
giving way to eternal spirit.
And the sky where this is possible
crashing without error
passing beyond what is still
a shape out of season
grinding to order spontaneity
from the recreation schedule
in tones that melt the set
and the stem chains
swirl's radiant center
casting off communicated rings.