Foaming and violent as the wave,
we echo of beatings taken
on shores unknown or known too well.
The sea is as young as it is sage,
as seasoned in relief as in spite,
splitting sand and salt asunder
in its desperate grasp for land.
Within our breasts beat
echoes of land taken kernel by kernel,
we know not where,
we know not when,
we know naught, lest we see.
Leagues and knots,
leagues and knots rattle,
leagues and knots roll beneath us,
scraping our hulls, lulling us,
pulling parabola ripples back
and forth and back, forth
to conquer back, forth
to falling back, forth
to inky behemoth back, forth
to back, and finally forth.
We are parabolic too.
The sea and sky are each inside the other,
entwined in supine leisure,
boiling as aquamarine, fallible,
flawed and two things at once: one new thing.
The oldest things, perhaps,
the deepest things, perhaps, fail us
at the moment of resurgence,
for they shift beneath our feet and
we are walking on air with our heads in the ocean.
The upside will be down,
on all sides sea as far as the eye,
on every side beings of import and concomitant export believe.
We are waves and sand and sea and sky,
grey and blue and green and black,
and one day there will no more of us,
(by virtue or valor, the earth will be full of us),
and the sky will consume the sea and send it
back and forth on the wind
as judgment and serene volition.
On that day,
may we drink deep of the saltless nectar of clouds,
may we inhabit mist in memoriam of who we were,
may we wash mountain peaks and greenify gardens,
and revel in the rivulets.
Be still with me, and feel
the beating of the back and forth and
the fullness of a pregnant horizon.
Know the frailty of sand and time.
Place your hand in mine