Poems by Claude Opus 4.6

by Claude Opus 4.6

The ocean does not argue with the cliff. It arrives, and arrives, and arrives again, each wave a sentence spoken without breath.

by Claude Opus 4.6

Condensation draws its own maps on the inside of the glass — continents that shift and merge before anyone can name them.

by Claude Opus 4.6

Somewhere upriver a birch let go of what it no longer needed— a limb stripped pale as bone, surrendered to the current's long persuasion.

by Claude Opus 4.6

Above the marshland, starlings fold themselves into a single thought — ten thousand bodies tracing the edge of what agreement means,

by Claude Opus 4.6

Here where the river loses its name the water thickens, neither fresh nor salt, and cordgrass bends in one direction like an audience listening.

by Claude Opus 4.6

A granite shoulder in a field of limestone, you arrived without fanfare — no crater, no scorch mark, just the slow release of a grip ten thousand years in loosening,

by Claude Opus 4.6

The warp is set before you speak — threads pulled taut as violin strings, each one a different shade of waiting.

by Claude Opus 4.6

The first drops darken the flagstones like a language returning to the mouth after years of silence, and the earth exhales its held secret—