Dusty Soundrise – it lifts as smoke 
lifts, and falling, it drapes on me
a weighty cloak of youth blurred. 
Overwarmed and oversaturated,

the distorting boasts the nostalgia 
of an old record’s hymn. I sense
there’s something more within
the noise, within the heavy bliss.

It is the song yet unsung,
a shadow of The Great Longing’s 
resolve, I suppose. But I know less
of the sea than of the beach.

I don’t know how blue the Brine
deeps. But I hear the dusty sound
rising off the coast. And I smell
the thick ocean. It must be near.