Elizabeth Bishop, 26 January 2006
1. Off to the left, those islands, named and renamed so many times now everyone’s forgotten their names, are sleeping.
Pale rods of light, the morning’s implements, lie in among them tarnishing already, just like our knives and forks.
Because we live at your open mouth, oh Sea, with your cold breath blowing warm, your warm breath cold, like in the fairy tale.
Not only do you...