My Human Disguise.
The waters are the solution of time,
(I’m not the only being to have said),
Forever stirred in its lake or sea bed
By wind or current; in its essence, prime,
Like 2, 3, 5, 7, or 11,
Or in some quantity, 97.
After all these many eons, “years,”
The solution is not nearly resolved—
Duration hasn’t thoroughly evolved
To nothing. Let us be content with tears.
Today, gale winds beat the waves to a moil
That tore the sand from the beach, turning
The water brown as the next wave’s recoil
Threw back the sand into the hour’s churning.
