Sinking To The Bottom

The tide cannot go on dark on my feet— in winter you move but 'specially move, but from within its grave, your bracing cease, this time of year where a fog I look through, in the sea that passed your own footprints by— in winter you move but 'specially move with a current that to my living cries like a wild channel, me to go to you, in the sea that passed your own footprints by; that beach still comes in waves, lost to my youth; I comb for our memory's ebb within— the forming seagulls in the ice air blew away. My part of you in deep ocean, though in the swell, your ghost returns, nimbus— I comb for our memory's ebb within as winter going out now approaches; the tide cannot go on dark on my feet, though in the swell, your ghost returns, nimbus— but from within its grave, your bracing cease.