I speak from a coastwhere light does not flatter—it worksor leaves.Granite keeps its face.It does not remember for free.Morning: salt, diesel,wind worrying silver birchuntil the leaves give uptheir small applause.By night, the count is done.Not written.Paper travels.Silence stays.Do not tell me we chose this.The vote is a curtain.Behind it:a hand on the rope.Coins soften their…