
Am I the tide, or did I gaze into it,
is the mind the own or is it trite warbling,
here,
where the tide is so green and to enter it
is to hope emerald is denser than murk,
my knees run aground accepting shingle over skin
And surely the water has ways of speaking,
of leaning over night space and in whispers recounting
drowned men’s tales
it is fragile, this glass that lays over the sea,
it is distracted, dirty, and malnourished
but it is water so it will outlast our best flourish
Peering down I see my own soul,
drifting, not thinking, this dream is swelling
and perhaps I really am just a passerby, illiterate cynic
vainly transcribing manner of tide-matter and
everything in it
So the sea rests its mind,
admits that it is blind,
and that it has been since the dawn of time.
I enter the vessel, upturned heckle, my hair floats like ghosts.
I am the tide,
but only because I stared into its milky eye, and in the undulation,
saw how I was going to die