All these oceans, the circling waters, well
Up in me, the slap, crush and splash, high tide
At sunset. Enough years have fallen away now,
I have no need of metaphors for wave and foam.
Thown back and forth, reaching and falling,
It's second nature, and what is nature at all
But a code to this silence unravelling within.
So I return here, circling waters, thirsty
For an apprehension, something to shake
Me from moist sleep. Any given question falls
Away like a cigarette from the mouth
Of a star, and I myself am that star,
That loser, needing to know, again:
Why me -- why not me?! Still there is just
This, just this, the slap of the wave
On my feet, and I'm held in the arms
Of gravity, an immensity
I can only love dumbly,
Blown away, like the idiot foam.