Silence and disturbance,
in a rustic run-down,
overlook the cove
where I float my boat,
to catch the wind
and make myself calm.

In that day,
where lives peace and air,
hides my soul.

Creaking weatherboard
and slightly-glazed view
through warped material,
and suggestions for titles
to print atop my pages.

Here, in this reality,
whose days do not run,
whose figures do not speak,
I sit at my simple desk,
watching the ocean,
as it moves with the wind,
brushing the edge of the rock,
slowly scratching the land
smaller and smaller.

Behind is another life,
not lived, so much as acknowledged,
and at its heart,
a quiet shape,
whose face is never seen,
save for the profiles
offered by the brass.