“Winter Hex, North Sea” (revised)—

The radio static of your silence
could fill the North Sea and has.
But those weather maps, now
decommissioned, which I love.
The blessed confinement of a hex.
Those lovely spaces. And think of men
and women and that sustaining floating
silent grid that is committed to it all, silent.
Or don’t. Call the fucking whole thing off.
The whole fucking. The fucking whole.