This man, this other
Whom brilliance of sunlight almost drowns –
He is a dark blur
Out on the beach inspecting stones.
So does he come
Foolish like this each day to stare
Drawn to an edge where there is no more edge?
Something there is wears out
As if a single look of mine might drown
That figure draped in sunlight
Till given a slight lilt
It disappears and goes inside
And I had wanted it so much,
That journey here past light-infected brickwork
The train a prolonged dawdle
Towards an absence nursed by rails, and now
This congregation of small stones
To say that, being here, you are
Almost word-perfect now.