Rain patters on a sea that tilts and sighs
Fast-running floors, collapsing into hollows
Tower suddenly, spray-haired. Contrariwise
A wave drops like a wall: another follows
Wilting and scrambling, tirelessly at play
Where there are no ships and no shallows
Above the sea, the yet more shoreless day
Riddled by wind, trails lit-up galleries:
They shift to giant ribbing, sift away
Such attics cleared of me! Such absences!
The last line forms the denouement. The poet intrudes and yet is absent; another  oxymoron . The wild, overwhelming forces of nature are condensed into an ‘attic’; the site of dusty unwanted possessions, an odd contradiction considering the blustery scene would normally clear the mind. 
 The poet isn’t part of the larger universe. His purpose seems to be to describe and interpret. Cosmic forces exist despite him. Individuals — the poet and the readers — are transcended.
Absences