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.
