The ocean knows
no urgency
until
it reaches
the end,
the beginning
of the other
world.
Ship-wrecked
survivors,
washed-up and gasping,
are clawing
at the shore.
The waves
crave
something.
They are the lung,
the tongue,
the heart.
The ocean
is a clock,
a wish made
with the gold coin
of a pocket watch.
You are
spinning
like a clam
in amorous circles--
sun reaching under,
blackness reaching up--
sleepily
descendiing
finding
a place
to rest.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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