From her sick, sick heart
a cough echoes to the sea,
where it chews on rocks.
His feet lay out beyond the sand
where they are drunk by the Baltic,
swallowed by blue liquid.
A conch shell sings of its
twisting emptinesses, of its voids;
—she and he—they hear separate songs.
Their two coastal bodies bend;
they tremble for different reasons,
their suns are of different whitenesses.
Their evenings are of different temperatures,
and both of them—she and he—
dishonest machines.