The Laocoon of a tree, casting the mountain weight
off his shoulders, wraps them in an immense 
cloud. From a promontory, wind gushes in. A voice
pitches high, keeping words on a string of sense.
Rain surges on; its ropes twisted into lumps,
lash, like the bather's shoulders, the naked backs of these 
hills. The Medhibernian Sea stirs round colonnaded stumps
like a salt tongue behid broken teeth.
The heart, however grown savage, still beats for two.
Every good boy deserves fingers to indicate
that beyond today there is always a static to-
morrow, like a subject's shadowy predicate.

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