Keen, I am not.

I’ve seen the white tipped

Ocean waves beyond

The shore. If I hold

My fingers in a frame

I can become close enough

To taste salt and feel

The water in my ears.

 

Remembrance places

Me above the wave, holding

Still while the current changes

Its mind and pushes me

Along. If the water is cold

I will be ready to see stars.

Warm and light, like

Frothed eggs, so I reach

Down to gather the streams

That run through the sand.

 

The ocean spills and washes

Desire, erasing the ink, the grass,

The fog, the red cardinals,

The smell of burning pine

That have gathered in my

Temples and stuffed themselves

In my mouth. I gasp for air

And the ocean pulls me free

From what drowns on dry land.