Smell the wet cement
ears are slapped and scraped by trowels
as this round wall grows a tower
and the sun is rendered fainter, farther, smaller
too small to thread 
or wear
that round O mouth forms
forever sorrow 
and a mind follows those 
far gone from here
for less is less is more to bear.

Out there the shore surrounds 
in here my body stands surrounded
as my round tower rises
rides the sky,
the breath and grunt of masons lessens,
and the wall grows strong.

Seaspray flings its fingers, wets the stone
as shingle chinks and falls
like tiny ineffectual 1good-luck charms.
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