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The air that breathes the house from the south-east Comes from the deep Atlantic. It has blown Free as a curving gull, free as bright mist, Free as air, as salt, free of its own,
Free to be drawn on by the rules of chance. The air is moist with sea, is harsh with salt. It bends and burns the palms in its advance, It pulls and tumbles them and does not halt.
The house’s solid wall turns it around In a tumbling arc of turbulence And doubled speed. The aeolian sound Rattles leaves and leaps across the fence –
Stretched out and spun into a wheel of force – Encounters contradiction in its course. |