So begins another tour around the sun.
Corals, overhot, eject their hearts, lie ashen
in the moat. If you wait, the proper word will come.
The proper word is threat to come.
Minnows in phalanxes multiply and trail our boat.
Bonvoyoh! We tour, again, around the sun.
In the middle of our camp, you twitch alive.
I heard, at last, the proper word arrive.
I hurt the soil as I run.
Another voyage round the sun.