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