The stars saw it happen, the sea doesn't care--O-gape mouth always roaring: More! More! Here in Acadia the sea is cold that was boiling. Black as a chou's tongue, scarves of volcanic rock flowed burning--a silent heat! Prehistoric birds circle in the updraft for killed trilobites--a cookout-- All the land made death's; the near sea, too, dead, her back turned away riverlike. No white grains of beach among the granite. Cool eons until lichen like stars began to dot it, winking pink, yellow, dull grey-green in death's despite, in death's despite gripping the naked tongue whispering: More! More!