The image. Sea scrambling at rock.
Do you question this or anything
about the air, the sky, the way
it makes you feel? The risks
are not apparent, buried in the haze
that hovers at consciousness.
Should you be alone, feeling full
the rough wind, nick of salt,
you may know the moment.
Take it into your past to meddle with memory.
Or settle into the center, as if
a spirit had passed through with an exultant sigh.
What stays, the image or your desire of the image?
This sea or another? Take the myths
and toss them into the wailing winds
or clutch them to your heart, like a dying woman
with no time to forgive. It goes on.
Beneath the rush, rush of the grasses,
others are tending to the mysteries.