It came green, too close to the beach, but not from the sea.
Much too green, shining, it threw back the sun’s rays with extraneous intensity.
There was/ There is a strange singing there. It arises through reality and not simply the sea.
We have had wine skies ever since. Slowly up it comes.
Many believe that destruction was hidden under its feet.
It moves on a scale difficult to comprehend.
How fast must we seem to it? What blurs are we, beside the wine-skied sea?
Never mind. We are sea spray, scattering light, known only for our interference on sunshine.