Pentwater

 

When I look at the water

at the height of the horizon,

the wave becomes the measure

of distraction—one from one.

Thought without language,

apparition of ecstasy,

the dappled expanse of gray

is a pure solution of age.

A glint in glinting tangles,

perturbation of the lens.

Light, facets, and the angles

form a lid, a cloud of sense.

The shadows of clouds roam,

dousing the frenetic foam,

like jealous ghosts of ideas

haunting insistent memories.

The wind dies.  The waves turn

into breakers, cresting, lurch

beyond themselves and churn

the trough line of their search

to the end of their sameness

on the slanted, abrupt shore,

or in further, final caresses

of the afterthoughtful shore.

Or I dive into their crests,

heaving breast upon breast,

then stand and see them dead

beneath receding waves ahead.

Only the sun is witness, red

as an old apple on a bed,

as an old eye as it slides

beneath its trembling eyelid.

The gulls scream, adding song

to the air, fish, water, refuse,

light—the things that they use—

sing the meaning in their songs.