The solitary guitarist, robbed of his instrument,                   

strums, instead, the gilded blue dark sea.

Gulls float above his sound

like the notes he’s playing.

Half composed, half imposed,

the relationship, a kind of wave oncoming.

There is a song that drowns neatly,

another hovers between white carnage, green carnival.

Melody sifts down like night,

kicks free as sand.

— John Grey