this part two

have seen? old charging coast against rocks.
of course you have, and how it moves:
over, as, if, it, were
trance and glaical pull.

the very you, the hands.
the work of violins and wood dust.
across continent you'll drive
and in little tries spring up:
in starts until stays, about completion.

about a chalk line erased by wet-
about the way sound fits into the ear-
and every quarter note put like that,
for the listen pulls a trick:
enforced by hearing.

i want listening.
raw winter ghosts exposed.
i want ease of breathing:
into long strings through bitter drives.
i have wanted talking
and have eased close to the hint of you.

(that barely lifts dust around
so careful that it wrinkles only bedsheet, forehead)
in wondering why
to keep silence i
come up with
so very little.