A whiter bone:
  the sea-voice
    in a multiple monody
crowding towards that end.
     It is as if
         the transparencies of sound
composing such whiteness
    disposed many layers
         with a sole movement
of the various surface,
    the depths, bottle-glass green
         the bed, swaying
like a fault in the atmosphere, each
        with its separate whisper, each whisper
a breath of that singleness
    that ‘moves together
        if it moves at all’,
and its movement is ceaseless,
    and to one end–
        the grinding
a whiter bone.

Charles Tomlinson