My feet are burning for the salt of the south
that sweeps in groaning water over sand
and heat is broken never, nor any drouth
dries the fertile, oceanic land.
My bones complain of winter over much
and blood is slow against this miser cold;
but fiercer burns against this hutch
the want for beach's eye-hurt out of wold.
Take away yule log, take the fir tree;
take the artificial pine scents and the bling.
Nothing are these but cabin fever to me
in this want for a driftwood door that swings
by some beach ghost's hand: on the offing
is fish, is shrimp, is salt and wine
and all the hazards of that realm
may come and dine.