The Waves

The waves come in, well, in waves, chasing each other--the restlessness, the repetition.  Across unfathomable fathoms, formless, they come.  They are not humbled by distance.  Disrupting the Earth's surface, they are perplexed by the moon.  The sun infuses each makeshift mountain, each rising topography with transparent luminosity.  

The waves chase each other down. With a fluid vendetta, they follow each other afar.  The water cracks open and then refracts exactly, with a jeweler's precision:  sapphire, amethyst and jade.  Their are promises suggested but not made about the wealth of worlds beyond the waves.  The oceans boast of empires.  They whisper of the disappeared ships--torn hulls and ragged rigging--that sit, like some zen master, holding their breath at the bottom of the sea.

Waterlogged, the waves are drunken sailors savoring the arrival of the land.  They fall face first into the sand; they stand before drowning.  The waves dissipate, diffuse, and sink--the last gasp fills their mouths with sand--into the porous graveyard.

The Sinking

You are
now only
an equation.  You are
the weight of your body
exaggerated,
the weight of your dress,
wet. You are the salinity
of the water
confronting the temperature
of the air.  You are
the temperature itself
(not the word
for it, not
the idea, but)
the actual feel
of vapor given
a set
of conditions.

You are
heavy...

Your heart like lead,
dead in the cavity,
is sinking.  The black
ink of the ocean
enveloping you.
Time standing still,
at attention,
at the edge of the world.
11:55

This is
a broken clock
a silenced organ,
still standing
a steeple of crumbling stone:
after the war
the watch's face
wrinkled in doubt
begins to sag.
Dali begins
to dream.

One wave
will reduce you
to the rubble you leave
behind.  One wave,
your fingers are blue roses
that may bloom
a final time
as you slip beneath the surface.
One wave
one breath
one last tattered tongue
wagging.

Words,
unheard,
unspoken
are broken
(like ancient pottery)
on the ocean

floor.

The Ocean Knows

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.