The sea will wash in
but the rocks-jagged ribs
riding the cloth of foam
or a knob or pinnacles
with gannets-
are the stubborn man.
He invites the storm, he
lives by it! instinct
with fears that are not fears
but prickles of ecstacy,
a secret liquor, a fire
that inflames his blood
to coldness so that the rocks
seem rather to leap
at the sea than the sea
to envelope them. They strain
forward to grasp ships
or even the sky itself that
bends down to be torn
upon them. To which he says,
It is I! I who am the rocks!
Without me nothing laughs.
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