there is no beach
the water is heaped dead against the land
it should flood into this depression but gravity itself is drained
even the light is dead.

the light  shines in the darkness
wrote john
and the darkness did not overcome it
but in this place darkness has stripped the colour from it

miserable winter swamp where the sun  will not go down
a sheol
neither  dead nor alive
drawn in bilge and sludge
uncaring smudged sketches of life
which  contain   miseries of  unexpected detail

silent silent forest
no birds
the sound sucked out of it
branches rotting as they fall
the substance is gone from everything
it drips

yet you beset me behind and before
to whom else can i go

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