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Portside, under heaven, I am spoonfed skyloads
I have a mouth full of clouds the color of rainbows
Guided by Sirius and this rose-pink light
and this sky-blue ice-like surface of the sea
near the shoulder of the shore I see wet glass
mirror sunset clouds in a scintillating taffeta sheen
that floats and rolls into swell-curl-crash-spray-foam
churning back into white, into mist, into eternity...
So lovely and yet so like a violent machine
slapping the hardness of rocks
grinding down the world to sand.
The mouth of the river blows into the sea
which itself is almost always all mouth
spitting the surfers back to shore
slurping and sucking from here to China
like a noisy straw, licking the sand
as if to wipe clean memory's debris.
Persuaded by some mysterious
necessity of magnets these waves
reel and lap at my elbows
like a hungry dog.
Through foghorn moan and silver mist
this hull groans out another alphabet
of my soul—on luminescent tides
in the highs and lows of a softly subliminal
metronome watercolor symphony of moments.
A windward genuflection: A sudden gust--
This sounding need not be draped in dreams. |
